


Crossed in the places that you never knew to get through

by noelia_g



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts at a crossroads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hell

It starts at a crossroads.

(It's not the real beginning. Things have happened before that led to this, things thousands years in the making and things quite recent, like the wound still bleeding, dark blood seeping into the dirt. But it's a beginning nonetheless. Right here, right now, this happens.)

Where do you turn in your darkest hour? When all seems lost, whose help you seek? Do you pray and hope and wish, or do you take the matters in your own hands?

The matter at hand being a sharp knife, a handful of animal bones, a strand of hair severed off unevenly with hands that never shake when they hold a knife.

It's a story his grandmother told around the fire, after the kids begged her for a scary tale. A tale of a man who had lost everything but his bones and his soul. And a sharp knife. He went to a crossroads at night, a handful of bones, a strand of hair, a few drops of blood, all that he gave to the earth and he looked at the sky and he waited. Waited for a demon to appear, to grant him a wish, in exchange for what little he had left.

What little he had left was the most important thing you had, the one thing all demons want.

The man got his wish and returned to his village. He was wealthy and respected, but he wasn't happy. He could feel the time slipping between his fingers, ten winters passing quickly, too quickly. He tried to run and hide, he tried to get away from the demon, but demons always find you, once they've tasted your blood.

They rip you to shreds and they take away your soul, the only thing a demon will care about. They rip you to shreds and they take away your soul.

The children covered their faces with their hands and groaned in appreciation. One of those children grew up into the young man, not yet aged one and twenty, who is kneeling at the crossroads now, blood trickling down his arm, fingers digging into the dirt, digging up a hole. Blood seeps into the ground, into the earth. He looks up at the sky and makes a wish.

He waits.

(His story will be told by someone else's grandmother one day. His name is Brad, but they'll forget this. No one will mention that it was deep winter and the ground was frozen, that his fingers bled when he dig up that hole. No one will know that the sword at his side wasn't his, as his was broken on the battlefield and he picked up the first one he could lay his hands on. No one will ever be told that there were twenty three men who headed out from his village and that twenty two bodies were now strewn across the field. That's not what the story is about. Not that story.)

"Twenty two lives for one soul?" the demon asks. "It doesn't sound very fair."

Brad looks up. He's not sure what he expected, but the demon isn't... He's beautiful, for one. Otherwordly, yes, with dark green eyes that seem young and ancient at the same time. But demons can look however they want, Brad thinks, it's part of the trick.

"One soul," he nods. "All that I have left," he adds, his voice sounding more sure than he feels. His hands grasp at the dirt, blood dark against the pale skin when he clenches his fists, knuckles white, blood red.

The demon reaches out, his hand unexpectedly warm against Brad's cheek, and Brad tries not to flinch away but withstand the searching gaze calmly, return it even. He waits until the demon is done with his perusal, the line of his mouth tight and...unhappy?

One thing all demons want. One thing Brad has left. It has to be enough.

"Usually the trade is different. Wealth, respect, love. Lives, yes, life of a loved one, health to be returned, love to be brought back," the demon says wonderingly. Brad flinches now, he might be ready to trade in his soul but he's not quite expected to have it looked at like this, inspected inside and out, measured.

Trade is a trade, you'd look at a horse before you bought it, wouldn't you? He holds the gaze and doesn't blink.

"You could throw in some wealth," he offers coldly. It seems to amuse the demon somehow, the corner of his mouth curling up in an almost-smile.

"And a love brought back? You seem to have it in your reach."

"Twenty-two lives. One soul," Brad repeats. "That's the only deal to be made here."

"I'll be back in ten years." It seems like the decision has been made, but the demon doesn't let go of Brad, his fingers curled on Brad's neck now. Gentle pressure, tilting Brad's head back.

"I'm ready now." Nothing left. Truly nothing now.

"It's customary," the demon says. "Ten years to think and regret," he adds. His lips are warm against Brad's, everything is warm now even though Brad's breath still comes out in puffs. "Ten years to rage and bargain and run."

"I won't run."

"I know." There's something strange about the demon's smile, sad and broken and unexpected. Brad isn't sure what it means, isn't sure why he cares.

He's kneeling in the dirt at the crossroads and the demon's gone. The night air is cold again, the ground underneath him frozen solid, no trace of the hole he dug, no blood on his hands. No wound in his side, nor in his shoulder. The sword next to him is his, there's a fire blazing thirty feet away, some of his men sleeping peacefully, some talking in hushed voices.

The back of his neck burns at the point of contact. A reminder, like he needs it. He won't forget and he won't run, a deal is a deal.

(This is how they will tell the story: a man dug a hole at a crossroads in the middle of the night. A hole he filled with his blood and hair and a handful of animal bones, and all the desperation in his heart. He looked up at the sky and made a wish. A demon appeared to grant it, but he demanded the man's soul in return. The demon would return in ten years to take what was his. The only thing a demon wants. He'd rip the man to shreds and take away his soul.

This is how they tell the story.

It's true. It's a lie. It's a story.)

Brad will forget. Not in the ten years, but later. You forget a lot when you die. He will forget but he won't run. A deal's a deal.

*

Brad's freezing his ass at a crossroads.

Well, not really. Technically, he doesn't have to feel cold if he doesn't want to. He doesn't have to feel anything if he doesn't want to.

The last one is a lie, though. He feels quite a lot, whether he wants to or not. Right now, for example, he feels annoyed. "Yeah, okay, he's a no-show. We can go."

He bet Ray that the idiot musician would show up and hand his soul over. It's a sucker bet, every time, they never fucking show up and you always have to send the hellhounds after them. Fortunately, the bet was for peanuts. Well, dollars, but that's almost the same thing and equally useless to a demon.

"Every fucking time, Brad," Ray shakes his head and whistles low. "Your turn, my pretties," he says to Tango and Cash.

Yeah. Brad doesn't even know. Then again, what are the appropriate names for a couple of hellhounds who reach up to his shoulder?

"What's the point of selling your ass at the crossroads if all you get from is is your girlfriend recovering from a fatal illness and then dumping your sorry ass for the hot doctor who 'cured' her?" Ray asks, shaking his head. "Mortals are retards."

They're back at the bar, a ratty place in Buttfuck, Tennessee. It's probably the closest dive to the crossroads in question, but Brad's pretty sure it's mostly to fuck with him and make him listen to the fucking country music. The travel between one place and the other didn't take more than a fraction of a second, but it's the same thing to travel to London or Hong Kong or fucking Los Angeles.

"I would drop this motherfucking business like a piece of shit it is if I didn't owe Poke a few more souls. Remind me never to play cards with the asshole ever again, he cheats, every damn time."

"Souls are not currency," Brad says with distaste and downs his whiskey. One of the few things humans actually know how to do.

"Where have you been for the last few centuries, homes? Souls are the only currency. Bought, sold, traded and stolen. Am I right, or am I right, Nate?" he asks, tilting his head to the left, where Nate seems to be comfortably seated in the chair that was empty a fraction of a second ago. "Souls are what makes this whole motherfucking hell business go around."

"Wouldn't know," Nate says, matter-of-fact and calm. "Don't have one. Brad, a moment of your time?"

Ray looks away, pointedly studying the cracks in the ceiling or whatever the fuck is interesting right above him. Brad doesn't answer, just calmly sips his whiskey. Doesn't mean he just finished the glass, the glass is always half-full when you're a demon.

"Nate," he says finally, nodding magnanimously. "Long time no see. What's it been, a decade?"

"Two," Nate supplies pleasantly. His jaw is clenched, the only thing that betrays he's anything but perfectly calm. "Ray, if you could..."

"Yes, sir," Ray mutters and disappears, giving them fucking space or some other bullshit, just because Nate asked for it. Then again, it's Nate.

Hell doesn't have ranks.

And if you believed that even for a second, you deserve to have the core of your being slowly roasted in the hellish fire, which is the traditional punishment for all of those who dare to disobey an order from someone who outranks them. Even if technically, there's no ranks, they're all a scrappy band of exiled and rejected and outcast. Kumbaya.

Brad raises his eyebrows. "Must be serious for you to make it into this neck of woods."

There's something weary about Nate's expression. He looks worried and tired. Not tired like someone who probably hasn't slept for a few years, because Nate takes the whole evil-never-sleeps thing rather literally. Tired like he's had enough.

"Walk with me," Nate mutters, and when Brad stands up instinctively, his next step is in St. James' Park in London.

Brad wants to mock that, say that he didn't think Nate was such a sentimental pussy, except he can't quite make himself form the words.

It has been two decades, he hasn't forgotten at all. He can pinpoint it to a second, to less than that even. You're really aware of the time when you're a demon, maybe it has been designed as a perk of the job, but it's really fucking annoying when you're trying not to think how long you hadn't seen someone, how long it has been since...

"How you've been?" Nate asks, like he doesn't know.

"Smalltalk? Really?" Brad shakes his head in mock dismay, like he can't believe he's getting this bullshit. It's a little better than trying to answer the question because fuck, he doesn't even know what the answer is.

Nate offers him a knowing smile. "I didn't want to offend you with the pleasantries, I'm sorry," he pauses and looks away, at the sun coming up over the trees, warm and slow. "It's starting."

Brad doesn't need to ask what he means. Every demon in the world would instantly know what he means. They all talk about it often enough, and going on those talks you'd think the apocalypse will be like a never ending frat party. All the souls you can eat buffet with free booze.

Nate has never mentioned it before, never spun one of those fanciful 'when the world ends, I will' tall tales. Most of the time he acted like he didn't care whenever the subject came up, whenever other demons talked about it in hushed, reverential tones, like it was the demon equivalent of fucking Christmas and they were writing letters to Santa.

A dog runs past them, happy as you please, followed by a rushed young woman yelling the dog's name, her voice hoarse and a torn leash in her hand. Nate whistles low and the dog stops in its tracks, a little confused, and waits patiently for the woman to tie the torn end of the leash around the loop of its collar. Nate watches it, head tilted, and it gives Brad a moment to study Nate.

Same body as twenty years ago. Come to think of it, same body as two hundred years ago, same body as in all the time Brad has known him. It's not unheard of but it's rare, most demons burn through the bodies rather quickly. Maybe Nate just takes more care with it.

Except now he looks downright ill. He looks like he's lost weight, which is really impossible, and his skin is thing, almost translucent. Illuminated by the morning sun he seems otherwordly, unreal.

It's funny, if you know the joke. He's as otherwordly as they get, after all, but there was never anyone who was more real to Brad.

"When?"

Nate shrugs. "Soon. Time is relative, downstairs, but soon. A human year, maybe two."

"2012? Fuck, the mortals will be impossible to deal with, after they're proven right."

"Impossible and dead," Nate supplies. The regret in his voice isn't surprising at all, Nate has always liked humans. And not in the way some demons, Brad included, enjoyed the world and the human creations, like jalapeno and cheese and cable tv and motorcycles. Everyone pretty much admitted that the mortals were imaginative and entertaining to have around at times, but Nate liked them, genuinely and with a degree of bemusement and worry, like he wanted the things to work out for them crazy kids.

"Pity," Brad says flippantly. "I was gonna buy myself a new bike for Christmas."

"There's a certain irony in you celebrating Christmas."

"All the more reason to do so. Fuck with everyone's expectations," Brad looks for the familiar grimace flickering across Nate's face. It's comforting that he can still read Nate easily. Comforting and downright fucking annoying.

He sits down on a bench and Nate has no choice but to stop in his tracks, hands in the pockets of his coat, possibly to hide the clenched fists.

"Solid intel?"

"I have been assured the operation is underway, the preparations have been made. The armies are gathering."

Fucking ace, Brad thinks. The armies of hell, now that's a clusterfuck waiting to happen. Gather millions of beings that by their very nature aren't going to follow any rules and will rebel against any authority. It's sort of fucking brilliant.

Nate tilts his head, his gaze searching and wary. Uncertain.

Some odd twenty years ago Brad had told him to fucking get out. Said that if he saw Nate again in a thousand years it would be too soon. He half expected Nate to ignore him, thought Nate would act like the stubborn fucking asshole he can be and plead and try to explain and fight tooth and nail.

Nate went.

Twenty years later he's back because it's the fucking end of the world. It takes Brad some time to indentify the feeling buzzing underneath his skin, the flush in his face and the heat in his stomach. He's angry.

No, that's not quite it. Not angry.

Really fucking pissed, that would be it.

Mostly at himself of course, for being disappointed that, of all things, this is why Nate seeks him out. That he needs something, be it Brad's expertise or his forgiveness or whatever fucking closure he's looking for, it's not because he needs Brad. Pissed at Nate, too, for... for pretty much everything, and he has a lot to choose from, considering it's been a thousand years, give or take.

"What's your role in all of this?" he asks, sticks to the matter at hand because it's easier.

Nate smiles, wide and broken. "I am to lead the first wave of hell's soldiers. I have been assured it's quite an honour."

"I don't suppose you told them where they can stick it?"

"You know, I've said something like that to my superiors once. Didn't quite work out well for me," Nate shrugs and sits down next to Brad, close enough that their thighs are almost touching. A shiver runs up Brad's leg. It would have been nice if it stopped there. "If I am to burn more bridges, I should be at least a little less obvious about it."

"You sound like you have a plan."

The smile he gets for those words is simply unfair. Brad had spent centuries working for smiles like that one.

"You hate country music," he says, a non sequitur if Brad heard any, but he's not done yet, it's just a prelude to whatever he sought Brad out to say.

"Your insight into my psyche is uncanny. It's as if you actually knew me." It's a cheap shot, and Nate closes his eyes for a brief second, hiding the flicker of pain pretty quickly. When he opens them again his gaze is clear and trained on Brad, unflinching and steady. It's almost too much.

"You love your bikes and you love jalapeno, you maintain that Apple must have been downstairs' invention and you don't like mornings even though you hadn't needed to sleep since you died and that's been a long fucking time ago."

"You'd know," Brad agrees, almost pleasant, except there's sharpness underneat, designed to cut quick and deep.

Nate nods, serious, not quite ignoring Brad's words but choosing not to deal with them right now. "You like this world."

"Can't leave it without going back downstairs and everyone there is just tragically devoid of sense of humor."

"Want to save it?"

It's nothing less than Brad expected. Going against the armies of hell and possibly against God's plan, if he even has one. The last few hundreds of years make Brad doubtful.

Maybe Brad's mostly pissed at himself because he can't refuse Nate anything he asks, not even now.

"You could have bought me dinner first," he mutters. "How many do you have on your side?"

"Counting you and me?"

"Two, then," Brad guesses.

"Two."

*

Brad's not sure how old Nate really is. He wonders if Nate really knows, if it's possible to know, to remember, after such a long while.

Time changes, after all. It's measured in nanoseconds now, broken down to the smallest shards. Brad remembers when it was measured in changing seasons and the growing of the crops, when it was measured with the phases of the moon. People hurried then too, lost time and bought time and spent time, but it felt different. Seconds weren't sharp like steel, hours stretched like molasses.

Brad's own human life is a hazy dream, one he's not sure he actually lived through. For a long while he didn't remember anything of it. It's what happens to all humans-turned-demons. Maybe it's like mortals, who never quite remember much from their childhood, just scraps of half-gone images.

He can recall some things now, through the fog and the time. Faces of people he can't name, places that don't exist anymore. Some days, he wishes he didn't remember any of it. There's at least one thing he wishes he never remembered at all.

"How much do you remember from your human life?" he asks Nate now, picking up a thread of a conversation they never quite had.

They're waiting for the fucking Encino Man to show up. Always a a pleasure. Brad's a few minutes from suggesting they should repeat the summons and this time use smaller words and bigger letters, but Nate probably wouldn't appreciate that.

Brad thinks he should be over considering what Nate would and wouldn't appreciate but some habits are hard to shake off.

"I don't..." Nate starts with the slightest shake of his head. He seems to contemplate Brad's expression for a moment before he speaks again. "What brought this on?"

"Never heard of making conversation?"

"It's not exactly small talk, Brad."

"I could ask you about the fucking weather but no one really cares and it's going to be raining fire pretty damn soon anyway," he says pleasantly and the corner of Nate's mouth twitches, in exasperation or amusement, but it's familiar enough for Brad to almost smile in response. It feels comfortable, and so of course he does his best to ruin the moment. "For some reason I have been doing some thinking about that one time I sold my soul."

Not a muscle tightens in Nate's face but his expression changes all the same. Brad might have just as well punched him in the gut. "And you want to compare notes?"

"Something like that."

Nothing like that at all.

He looks at Nate now and feels like he doesn't know him at all, for the first time in... he's not sure. Eight hundred years, maybe. Something like that. He's not sure when they met, or at least, he's not sure when they met for the second time. It was probably sometime in the thirteenth century, maybe closer to the beginning than to the end. They've done Italy, the first time, sometime in the fifteenth century, and that must have been more than a hundred years after they've met.

Nate spoke Italian like he has done it all his life. Not in the purely utilitarian way demons speak every language under the sun, but like he loved the words and the sounds. He speaks every language this way, from Latin and Ancient Greek to English.

The first time they went to Greece together, Nate stood on a hill, eyes closed and breathing steady, hands at his sides. Calm and relaxed, beautiful. Brad didn't even feel him shaking until he wrapped his arms around Nate.

Some four hundreds years later they travelled across America just because they had nothing else to do, or nothing else they wanted to do, and Brad finally talked Nate into travelling by car. The cars had just gotten fast enough for Brad's liking. They rolled the windows down and Nate tilted his head back, eyes half-closed and lids heavy, the line of his neck unbelieveably inviting, his hand warm on Brad's thigh.

"What's the real question?" Nate asks now, his hand on his own knee, fingers digging into the jeans.

"I guess it's why?"

"You know the rules. When it's offered, you make the deal."

Brad looks away, at the crowd of people in the bar. Someone just started the jukebox and a couple is dancing, her hand in his jeans' pocket. A guy at the bar drinks whiskey straight up, the bottle in front of him. He'll be dead in three months, Brad can tell, although considering how the things are going, it might be the case of leaving early to avoid traffic. The bartender is fiddling with the tv above the bar, trying to get something else than static.

"Not what I was asking about," Brad mutters.

Nate turns to him with a sigh and leans back in his chair. "What were you asking about?"

"I don't remember," he says, like it's an explanation. It's vague but he's pretty sure Nate will get it anyway, twenty years couldn't have destroyed centuries of learning how to read each other's thoughts from a single glance.

"Twenty-two lives," Nate says. "That's what you traded it for. Twenty-three counting yours, to be honest," he adds quietly. "You would have bled out in a couple of hours."

The song on the jukebox changes into some upbeat country shit, a few more people dragging their asses onto the dancefloor. He doesn't know who picked this place for the meeting but it must have been done to fuck with Brad.

"And you gave me ten years regardless? What the fuck was it, your first deal ever?" Brad shakes his head. He doesn't remember the men he traded his soul for. Maybe it's a good thing, they're all dead anyway, long time gone.

Nate bites his lip and doesn't answer. His fingers twitch a little, like he's turning something in his hand, and it takes him a moment to speak. "There's something I should..." he starts, words fading when the fucking Encino Man chooses right that moment to show up, that little shit Griego in tow.

"Nathaniel," Craig says, glancing towards Brad but not lowering himself to offer any other acknowledgement. "I don't have much time, we all have our orders."

"Isn't time fucking relative for us?" Brad mutters, not quietly enough to even pretend no one was supposed to hear it. Nate sends him an exasperated look but there's no annoyance, only fondness in his eyes.

"My orders are to lead the first wave. It's a little hard to prepare not knowing when or where," Nate offers earnestly, not a single false note in his voice.

"That's the problem with you upstairs boys, you overthink everything," Griego says. For some reason it makes Nate flinch, almost unnoticeably. Brad certainly wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't looking straight at Nate, and maybe even not then, if he wasn't him, if it wasn't Nate, if he didn't know Nate's face much better than he knows his own.

"You'll have the details when Ferrando decides you need them, Nate," Craig offers with what he probably thinks is sympathy but what mostly makes him look like he needs to go to the toilet badly. "Nothing important will happen before the horsemen ride out anyway."

"Horsepeople," Brad corrects before he can stop himself. He might have heard Ray's rants a few more times than he'd like to.

"Horsepeople, Brad? Really?" Nate says a few minutes later, after Craig and Griego has fucked off, offering some final moto bullshit (Craig) and cryptic warnings that somehow border on insults (Griego). Brad shrugs. He'd try to look contrite but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Fuck you. I could call on Ray and he can give you the spiel. The fucking Cliff Notes version takes a few hours."

"I think I'll pass, but thanks for the offer," Nate nods, all serious, like he has considered it.

Brad takes a sip of his drink. It's better than anything he could get in this bar. No, he hasn't bought it, there's no point in paying for the booze when you're a demon. That's one of the perks. "Now that was what I'd call an exercise in futility," he offers. "What was the point of this, again?"

Nate grins at him. Actually fucking grins, like Brad has missed something important. "You weren't really listening, were you?"

"I've always found it better for my sanity to ignore the wit and wisdom of Craig fucking Shwetje." Nate raises his eyebrows at him and Brad sighs. "I'll bite. What did I miss?"

"The horse- people," Nate offers, and Brad's pretty sure the significant pause shit is just to mess with him. "They hadn't ridden out yet."

Well, okay. He might have missed the significance. Not like he's an old hand in stopping the motherfucking apocalypse, alright? "Alright. Where do we start?"

"I have it on a good authority that you might know someone who could know where War is."

Brad snorts. "Fair warning, he's going to complain."

"That might be an understatement," Nate agrees. Brad starts to stand up but Nate reaches out, his fingers closing around Brad's wrist. His skin burns at the point of contact.

"Don't," he says and tries to jerk his hand away, but the attempt feels half-hearted even to him, Nate doesn't have to make a real effort to hold on to him.

He doesn't have to, but he lets go anyway. "I'm sorry. Brad, I need to give you..."

"Let's just go. There's not much time, right?"

"Time is relative for us," Nate reminds him, not unkindly, but he lets it go. He closes his eyes on the disappointment and when he opens them, he's matter-of-fact and decisive again. "Let's go, then."

One day, Brad thinks, he'd like Nate not to listen to him.

*

Brad had gotten his first bike in 1947. He has had seventeen bikes since then, four cars, one tank and one plane. He got his pilot's license in the 70s, the hard way, done the classes and the necessary flights. Created a whole identity just for this, because it was fucking fun.

He liked his third bike the best, it was the first one that actually let him feel the speed, the wind on his face.

Sometime in the spring of 1957 Nate has leaned against it, one hand on the handlebar, and looked down at Brad working on the engine. "You're gonna kill yourself on that thing one of these days," Nate told him reproachfully. Like he worried.

Brad reached out absently, picked up the screwdriver from the floor. His wrist brushed against Nate's ankle, leaving a smudge of oil on the cuff of his pants. "That could be fun, hadn't done that in a while. Last time I kicked the bucket was in 1498, right?" he caught Nate's eye, took in the serious gaze and the frustration behind it and shrugged. "Then again, requisitioning a new body is a bitch," he said lightly.

Nate caught his hand, fingers sliding across Brad's palm, thumb caressing his wrist, slow and gentle. Brad's hands were dirty but Nate didn't seem to care. "I happen to like the body you have now."

Brad's body certainly returned the affection. Nate's simple touch, just their hands and fingers, it was enough to make it abandon all conscious thoughts, his legs all but buckling. 

Brad figured he might as well listen to his body and use the momentum to drag Nate to the cold concrete floor, their legs tangling in an ungraceful heap, Brad's elbow hitting something hard. Nate was laughing before his head hit the ground and then he was laughing even harder, clawing at Brad's shirt and pushing it up as Brad moved to straddle him.

"There's a good joke somewhere here," Nate muttered, his mouth wet and warm and slick on Brad's neck.

"A dirty one?"

"Of course."

"About rough rides and such?"

"And tools. Definitely tools," Nate supplied, cupping Brad's dick through his pants. Brad's body reacted like a well tuned instrument, like it had for the past few centuries.

When you lived (or not lived, as the case might be, but Brad didn't have time for semantics) for that long, it didn't pay to get attached. Not to material things, not to anything at all. They fucked that one up a long time ago.

Nate's fingers traced Brad's jaw, along the line of his throat. His head was tilted as if he was listening carefully, and maybe he was. A hitch in Brad's breathing made him press harder, lean up to follow his fingers with his tongue. "Oh, God," Brad groaned and Nate shuddered, his head falling back. When he looked at Brad it was with familiar wonder and, still, with shock.

Brad could remember the first time the word had slipped from his tongue, a long time ago, when they fucked for the first time.

Brad's body had been virgin, he wasn't. It was an interesting experience, to say the least, to remember the way he had been touched before and yet have Nate to be the first to kiss him, to put his hand between Brad's legs and nudge them open, stroke Brad's cock slowly.

No one was tossing around terms like muscle memory back then, but everything felt new, strange. The words spilled unbidden, a litany of pleas and constant repetition of Nate's name, and then, thrown in for a good measure, the low and guttural God, please.

It was a verbal tick mortals had, one you just picked up after a while, with the speech patterns and local curses of choice.

And yet, Nate's whole body seemed to shake with it, and he looked shocked and mortified and furious and elated at the same time. "That's sacrilege," he whispered, lips dry.

Brad shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "Should I point out the demonic nature part and how sacrilege seems to be contractually required?"

"I don't- I can't-" Nate tried to say, abandoning the words or being abandoned by them.

"Besides," Brad drawled, hand curling on Nate's hip. "You've been around for a very long time, weren't demons confused with minor deities way back when?"

Nate shook his head and tried to smile. "Something like that."

"Can't say I blame them. I mean, I know some demons who would fit right in with those half-goats sort of deities, but you..." He moved swiftly, off the bed and dropping to his knees, nudging Nate's legs apart slightly, to fit in between them. "I could understand why someone might want to worship you."

"Brad," Nate whispered, reaching out tentatively, his fingers caressing the shell of Brad's ear. "Don't, please," he closed his eyes and breathed out, slowly. "I need to tell you something."

Brad mhmed at him. "It sounds entirely too serious a subject to concern ourselves with right now," he announced, leaning in, cheek resting against Nate's thigh. "Dealing with serious matters has been postponed until tomorrow. Maybe even later."

"Brad."

"I do like the way you say it," Brad nodded and nosed along the line of Nate's cock, Nate's hand fisting his hair as he tried to steady himself. "Not quite sacrilege, but I feel we're getting there. Say something more."

Nate smiled then, finally, the curl of his mouth a little uncertain but unmistakably there, and pulled Brad up for a kiss.

Some time later, hours, minutes, days maybe, who could tell... Some time later Nate was spread on their bed, eyes half-closed and mouth parted, his chest rising with unnecessary breaths, and when he rolled his head to the side he had this look of utter amazement on his face.

"I've always thought you'd need a soul to love anything," he said, his hand seeking Brad's, entwining their fingers together so tightly, Brad would be hard pressed to say which belonged to him and which were Nate's.

"Souls are overrated," he said, mostly because if he said anything else, if he allowed himself to confess even a fraction of what filled his chest, the spill might never end. Everything he was could seep through, bleed into Nate, complete the process that has already started when Nate was inside him, filling him, undeniable and overwhelming and so fucking beautiful Brad's heart hurt.

"I have," was all that Nate managed to get out before Brad was kissing him again, slow and lazy, swallowing the words not spoken.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and Brad sees all those moments now. He wonders where would they be if he noticed before, if Nate pressed harder, tried harder. Maybe it would be better now. Maybe it would all fall apart much earlier and Brad wouldn't have all those memories, wouldn't remember the flat in London or the concrete floor in San Diego or the way Nate's eyes always seemed brighter when he looked at Brad.

Hindsight is over-fucking-rated.

*

"It warms my dark and evil heart to see you crazy kids together, it really does," Ray tells them cheerfully. Brad briefly considers ripping his vocal cords out, but they don't have the time to wait until Ray acquires a new body and besides, it wouldn't stop the bitching.

"We need your help," Nate says, ignoring the look Brad gives him.

Fuck, normal people, normal demons, don't just walk around asking for favours. The whole system of who owes what to whom is complicated and fragile and takes a while to maneuver your way through. It's not that simple.

"If it's about couple counseling, you'll have to set up an appointment like everybody else, homes" Ray offers and then takes in Nate's expression and sobers up. "What do you need?"

It's not that simple unless you are Nate.

Then again, he just had to say a word and Brad signed up for a suicidal mission before Nate even explained what the plan was. And Brad is still fucking pissed at Nate. And yet, here he is.

"We were hoping you could get in touch with your ex," Brad explains. He can see the exact moment when the understanding dawns on Ray, the panic settling in is pretty damn hilarious.

"I seriously fucking hope you don't mean who I think you mean."

Nate shrugs. "I thought you might know where she is these days."

"Watch some fucking CNN, they'll tell you where she is," Ray mutters. "You know, if any of you has a rusty old knife on hand I could de-ball myself right here, save us the trip and the trouble."

He's fighting a lost fight. Brad could tell him that, but it's more entertaining to watch and see the look on Ray's face when Nate leans in, his face earnest and open. "Please," he says. "We need to talk to her."

"Yeah, okay," Ray mutters and looks at Brad with some reproach, as if Brad was responsible for the fact that Ray can't say no to Nate. There's not many who can, to be honest.

Unfortunately, War seems to be one of them.

"No," she says and downs her shot, automatically refilling the glass once she's done. The liquid turns interesting colours.

"That's it?" Brad asks, unimpressed. War gives him a look.

"Well, how about no, no fucking way?" she asks. "That works for you, honey?"

They're sitting in the lounge bar of the best hotel in town. The walls are plush and richly decorated but the floor is covered in soot and two windows are missing at the front. The bar is favoured by war journalists, Brad can count three of them here, despite the early hour.

From time to time, the ground shakes. Imperceptibly for humans, but Brad hasn't been human for a long while.

"I'll get more booze," Ray offers.

"You stay right where you are, Joshua Ray," War smiles. Her teeth are incredibly white and sharp. "How you've been?"

Ray shifts in his seat uncomfortably. This might be the first time ever Brad has seen him flustered and he watches with interest. "You know, same old same old. Still in the crossroads business. But I hear you're doing well."

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. "Yeah, things are going fine. I've been having such a good time I've almost forgiven you for leaving me out in the cold in... what was it, 1947?"

"Yeah. I'm glad," Ray says. "Not only because it might mean you won't be ripping my spine out, you know."

It probably passes for sweet talk. Brad can't even. "Back to the point? You will have plenty of time to flirt once we deal with the whole Apocalypse Now business."

War narrows her eyes at him. "You have a warrior spirit," she tells him. Brad isn't sure if he should thank her for noticing or whatever the fuck, but she continues, unfazed. "I can respect that, darling, which is the only reason you get an explanation. I couldn't do what you ask even if I wanted to. Riding out is my nature. Can's stop the waves of the ocean, can't stop the wind or rain."

"When the day comes, you'll ride out," Nate supplies. It's the first thing he said since they arrived, Brad has almost forgotten he was there.

It's a lie. He can always feel Nate, hyperaware of the touch and the presense and the way Nate's breathing, unnecessary but always there, makes his chest rise and fall. So, it's a lie, but it's not the point. The point was, Nate has been strangely quiet.

"What if the day doesn't come?" he continues, voice low and steady.

War smiles. "Then I won't," she says, like it's that simple. "I can't do what you ask, but I can offer you advice, angel. You're meddling in things you can't. It's God's plan and Lucipher's war, and it's not your fight."

Brad shakes his head. "This is useless. We should go."

Nate's fingers close around his wrist, stopping him from moving to his feet, but Nate doesn't look away from War. "Whose fight is it?"

"Figure it out, angel," she smiles and glances at her watch. "I have seventeen minutes before an ambush goes down seventy clicks from here. You interested in a quickie, honey?" she asks, glancing at Ray.

Ray blinks sheepishly. "I guess I'll see you later, homes," he tells Brad and nods at Nate before following War out. Brad rolls his eyes.

"What a nice girl," he says dryly. "And what a fucking waste of time."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Nate says thoughtfully. "Meddling in things we can't. Not shouldn't, can't," he repeats, more to himself than to Brad. "She said it's not our fight, Brad. The question is..."

"Whose fight is it," Brad finishes and Nate nods.

His fingers are still around Brad's wrist. They both act like they hadn't noticed, but Brad knows better. Nate's thumb moves slowly, caressing the thin skin on the underside of Brad's wrist. He looks down and follows the path with his gaze, along the vein under his skin.

His pulse is rushing, almost defeaning. Makes it hard to hear Nate's words when he starts to speak, even though his mouth is only a few inches away from Brad's.

"I'm sorry."

It's not the first apology. Nate had apologised profusely, repeated those words over and over again, twenty years ago, to the point where they've lost all the meaning.

They sound different now.

"What are you sorry for?" Brad asks, quiet and careful. He's afraid to break the moment. It's not the right moment and it's certainly quite inconvenient, but he doesn't think he's all that angry anymore. Disappointed, still. Hurt, yes. But he wants to keep on touching Nate, grounding himself.

"Dragging you into all this."

Brad laughs. Nate looks at him strangely, but shit, it's fucking hilarious. "You are really late on that one."

"I meant, the apocalypse. But," Nate shrugs. "Yes. Everything else too."

"Let's concentrate on the apocalypse bit. Deal with everything else later."

For the first time in a good few years he thinks there might be a later for them.

*

A girl is kneeling at a crossroads. Her hands are dirty, fingernails broken and fingers bleeding. Her face is streaked with tears.

She doesn't think it'll work, but she's desperate enough to try, desperate enough to have driven here in the middle of the night, to have dug a hole in the frozen ground. Her hair is wild and her skirt is muddy and her shoes are ruined. She digs her fingers into the ground and looks up. "Please," she says. "Please, please, please," she keeps repeating, each word filled with more desperation.

The demon appears.

She has heard the story from her grandmother, about the sad and desperate men who bargained their soul, who lost everything and still had this one thing to give, one thing only. One thing a demon could want.

They rip you to shreds and they take away your soul.

"Please," she repeats one more time.

"That's what you want?" the demon asks, reaching out to take her hand. Her legs shake when he pulls her up, steadies her gently. He's beautiful, she didn't expect that. Beautiful and tall, with piercing blue eyes, blue like she had never seen before. Maybe in the way the sky would be clear after a long storm, but not in anyone's face, never.

"It's my fault," she says. "He just wanted... now he's dead and it's my fault. He's everything... Mother can't go on without him, he's everything to her."

"And what are you?" the demon asks, sounding... irritated? Worried? She can't tell.

It's not going like the stories said it would.

"I'm not that important," she says. "My soul for his life, that's the deal," she adds. She shives when the demon reaches out, two fingers under her chin to tilt her head up, so he can look at her.

"It doesn't sound very fair," he mutters, something strange in his eyes. "But it's lady's choice, I guess. Are you sure? Is this your wish?"

"Yes," she says, and her voice doesn't break at all.

"Very well. I'll come back in ten years, then," he says and kisses her forehead, her skin burning for days later.

*

"She wanted to save her little brother. That much and that little," Brad shook his head. He wasn't sure why this one worried him, why this one bothered him. He's taken souls before, every demon goes through this gig at one time or another.

"They want different things. It's..." Nate shrugged, lost for words like he rarely was. His hands were shaking, Brad noted with surprise.

"I wonder if it's worth it. They all want things so badly, whatever it is. Life of a loved one or a record deal, one price. Fits all," he said mockingly. "Do you remember what you sold your soul for? I've been trying to remember my deal, but alas, no luck."

"I don't remember mine." There was something wrong with Nate's voice, like he was lying. Except he wasn't, Brad would be able to tell. "I remember yours, though."

Brad wanted to ask what the hell he meant but it clicked before he could. He had forgotten, before. You forget a lot when you die. But he remembered now, like you'd remember a dream, hazy and unreal, but there, at the edges of your mind.

"You," he said. It wasn't a question.

Nate looked up. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. He must have gnawed on his lip because it was angrily red and swollen. "I'm sorry."

What for, Brad wanted to ask. A deal is a deal, when offered you're required to take it. Everything else is just haggling.

"Brad, I'm sorry," Nate said, reaching out. Brad flinched and stepped away, out of Nate's reach. Nate's hand dropped to his side. "I'm so sorry."

It didn't mean a thing. "Get out," Brad said. "Get the fuck out of here."

"Brad, you need to listen to me. I still have..."

"I don't need to listen. I don't need anything at all from you," he shook his head. Almost a thousand years. Almost a thousand fucking years and Nate never said anything. He tried, maybe, Brad could give him that, would give him that, but that didn't matter. He never said anything. "I don't want to see you."

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't fucking fix it, Nate. It doesn't... I don't know. A thousand fucking years might be too soon. Just get out."

Nate went.

Brad let his legs do what they really wanted and give up from under him. He slid onto the still warm bed, to the spot where Nate had been moments before. He hid his face in his hands and laughed, fucking laughed until he couldn't anymore, until his throat was dry and his eyes were wet.

They rip you to shreds and take away your soul.

Fucking ace, on both counts.


	2. heaven

It starts with a fall.

(It's not the real beginning. If you want the real beginning you might have to look further back, to the beginning of time, the moment when the universe was created. This particular part of the story spans thousands of years but things that set it in motion happened a long time before. But you have to start somewhere, and you might as well start with this.)

It's not a long fall. It does feel like it lasts for eons, but it probably takes second, probably doesn't take any time at all. It's metaphorical, too, but Nate's bones feel broken anyway, his whole body aching.

Apart from the pain, he doesn't feel all that different. He expected... he's not sure what he expected. He feels a little hollow in his chest when he looks up at the sky, but that's not so different from the quiet desperation that has been building up for hundreds of years.

("Was it worth it?" Mike will ask him, much later, when they run into each other in Spain.

Nate will shrug, the echo of wings still resonating in his shoulders. He won't miss their weight except when he will. "Don't ask me about worth," he'll say, looking up at the sky, red with the setting sun. He'll feel the warmth on his skin, the heat of a summer day still almost unbearable, so different from the pleasant cool of heaven. "They wanted me to walk into that city and kill all the first born sons. Proof of His might. For what?"

Mike will sigh, his wings folded and his hand tightening on Nate's shoulder. He won't say a thing for a very long while.)

He stayed on Earth for a long time. Can't quite say how long, time has been different back then. Had seen the human cities rise and fall, had seen wars and crimes against everything sacred and had seen love so encompassing, so overwhelming, it seemed at times to be a crime in itself and yet sacred still.

It wasn't something he was prepared to understand. Love was an alien concept to angels, at the time. That hasn't changed much, but nowadays at least it was to be encouraged in mortals, like kindness and charity.

But back in the old days it was mostly rules and trials and rains of fire and locusts. Love or attachment... it wasn't something you troubled yourself with.

(A couple hundreds human years after Nate's fall, the policy changed. The stern and punishing God chose to send his Son to die for humanity.

Too little too late, if you ask Nate. Yes, he's still bitter about Jesus.)

He stayed on Earth for a long while, and after some time he has been given the crossroads job. Everyone did that at one point or another, some demons made a career out of it, if a demon could have a career.

The first one was a man, well, more like a boy, all of seventeen years old. He tried to hide the tremor in his hands by clenching them into tight fists. His chin was jutted out in fake bravado, his voice shaking only slightly. "I want her to love me," he said. "Only me, forever."

What could a boy of seventeen years know about forever? And in his case, forever would be ten years, not a day more.

They all ask for different things. Money, fame, love. Doesn't matter in the long run, price is the same.

Nate has no real interest in their souls. They're hell's currency, of course, but he never cared for it, didn't join the ranks of hell because he wanted to make a career out of it but because that was where you went, after. He never had a soul to begin with, but he traded something in nonetheless.

He stays in the job for quite a long while anyway. His superiors aren't quite pleased with his leniency, his insistance on the ten years deal every time, but choose to overlook it because Nate is the only one who never had a mortal back out of the deal, rethink and change their mind.

They all ask for different things. Sometimes, someone will ask for a life to be brought back, a life to be spared, a life to be saved. Nate closes his eyes when he seals the deal, wonders if he could taste the love and desperation on their lips. Maybe he could understand it then.

(They're the ones who come back of their own volition, the ones that greet him at the crossroads with a brave face and a slight tremor in their hands. The ones who try to smile and never look back, never run. They're the only ones who after ten years still think the deal was fair.)

Brad's not a boy, but he's young, too young. He's the last one. Nate thinks he would be even if the decision hadn't been made earlier, if he wasn't already moving on. One last stop, one last soul. Brad's the last, and in oh so many ways he is also the very first.

Nate knows everything about him the moment his feet touch the ground of the crossroads. The earth is frozen, Brad's blood seeping into the hole in the ground. He doesn't have long, maybe an hour or two of increasing pain until the unsconsciousness claims him. Internal bleeding, broken ribs, a gaping wound in his thigh.

He'll ask for twenty two lives.

Most demons wouldn't offer him a year for it. They'd take his soul, sure, but they'd decide one soul wasn't sufficient, that Brad was asking too much. They'd have it all wrong.

It's easy to ask for one life. Easy to bargain your soul for your mother or brother or the girl you love more than anything. There's no choice in this. Brad's asking for twenty two lives. He's never really got to know seven of them. Most of the time dislikes three of those men. Punched one in the face just last week and the man deserved it.

One of them is his second in command, his best friend, the man who is to marry Brad's intended. The man whose child she'll have soon.

Brad's willing to die for each one of them, willing to sell his soul for each of them.

"Twenty two lives for one soul?" he asks, shaking his head. "It doesn't sound very fair." It's worth so much more.

You take the deal, always. You can negotiate the terms, most of the time, take away a few years off the customary ten, maybe, but that's it. Nate shouldn't feel the desperate want to give Brad anything he asks for and demand nothing in return.

Ten years isn't a lot of time, compared to eternity. Neither is fifty or sixty Brad could maybe have. It is as little as the two hours he does have. This way... this way they might meet again.

When they seal the deal Brad's hand instinctively goes up to touch Nate's face. He probably doesn't even realise he's doing it. His fingers curl on Nate's jaw, his thumb leaving a trace of dirt and blood on Nate's cheek. Warmth spreads from the point of contact and he has to close his eyes for a brief moment.

He thinks he might be beginning to understand.

"I won't run," Brad assures him and Nate smiles, but it feels too sharp, broken, like he'd cut his lip on it.

"I know."

Brad doesn't run. He lives his life light, never marries, never has children. Nate sometimes wishes he would, that he'd find someone worth fighting for, someone who would maybe fight for him. (It's not that uncommon. There was a family a few years back who bought and sold souls so many times no one could remember what was even going on. It can be done.)

Brad lives his life light, like he doesn't want anyone to miss him.

He's back at the crossroads in exactly ten years. In fact, he's two days early, but then again, the art of telling time isn't yet all that precise.

"Are you late or am I early?" he asks when Nate appears.

"I'm never late," Nate shrugs. He wants to say something entirely different, but this is what comes out. It might be for the better.

Brad nods in acknowledgment and steps forward. He hasn't changed much. There's a new scar on his brow, faint and long healed, and when he stands, he's a little more assured, a little more at ease. His eyes are just as blue as Nate remembers.

"What now?"

"Your soul will be transferred to me when you die."

Brad waits for a moment. "Well? Am I just going to drop dead or do I have to take the matters in my own hands? I didn't bring a dagger to cut my own throat or spill my own guts, so you're shit out of luck."

"That would be so messy and inefficient," Nate offers dryly. Really dryly; the words feel like ash on his tongue. He wants... he doesn't know what exactly. For Brad to be angry, to try and bargain his way out, to be anything but this, accepting and honourable. "Was it all that you wanted?"

"Yes." Still the same flat tone. Nate's fingers itch to reach out, an unfamiliar tremor running up his forearm.

"How is Anna?"

That gets him a response. A flash in Brad's eyes, a quick flicker of anger that's gone a moment later, Brad's hands falling to his sides. "Her daughter will be ten in the spring. You don't..."

"She will have a long life," Nate assures him. It's not a promise, it's a statement of fact. "I can't tell if it's going to be a happy one, it's not exactly my area of expertise."

"Frankly, I'm shocked and amazed at this revelation. Pray tell, what is your idea of expertise?" Brad starts, something like a smile in the corner of his lips, before he rethinks and raises his hand. "Let's just get on with it, shall we?"

"Just answer me this. Was it all that you wanted?" he repeats.

"No," Brad says honestly. He holds Nate's gaze unflinchingly. "But it was all I needed."

Nate steps forward. "It won't hurt."

"Yes, because I was worried about that," he snarks and hesitates. "What happens next?"

"Hellish torment or an eternity as a demon. I'm not sure how the decision is made."

"This whole system doesn't work very efficiently," Brad tells him. His hands are tightly clenched into fists now. It's one thing to go to your death willingly and quite the other to be at peace with it.

Nate reaches out, curls his fingers on the nape of Brad's neck, pulls him closer. Brad moves in easily, no resistance at all, even though his fingers fist Nate's shirt. "I'm assured you won't remember this, not for a long while, maybe never," he says. "But if you do..." he stops, unsure of what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything. "It won't hurt," he says instead.

"Just fucking get it over with," Brad mutters as he moves in, clashing his lips against Nate's.

Brad's soul is warm to the touch. His body is cold now, unmoving. Nate stops by the village, leaving Brad's body in his house, in his bed. He doesn't know why he bothers, he never cared about insignificant details like this before. It's just an empty shell now, but he's reluctant to leave any part of Brad behind carelessly.

He takes the scenic route home, stops at the crossroads. Stays there until the sun comes up. He places his hands on the ground, still frozen and hard, and looks up, makes a wish.

It feels like the longest fall of all.

*

Whose fight is it?

There's more questions that desperately need answering if they're to have even a slighest chance of averting the apocalypse, but this one keeps turning around in Nate's mind. He feels like he should know the answer, like he knows the answer but can't remember it.

They still have time. Preparations are going slowly, the scuttlebut working the rumours or preparations of the armies and the possible targets. Brad disappears for a few days and comes back with Poke in tow, bringing the news of a possible timeline. It's December 2012, right in time for Christmas.

It might actually be someone's joke at the Aztecs' expense.

They make California their temporary base. Nate doesn't fool himself and pretend it's coincidence and even though he has a ready list of excuses, all valid ones, prepared for the case of anyone asking, he knows better. It's California because this might be the one place on earth Brad actually loves.

The lazy sprawl of the beaches, the open spaces and the light. And the ocean. Brad's village, Nate remembers even if Brad doesn't, was close to the shore. His bones are buried on a hill overlooking the ocean.

But it's not just that, not only the vast expanse of water and the rhythm of the waves that draws Brad in. There's surfing. The taco shop on the corner. The evenings on the pier, when most people are gone already but not all of them, and everything is lazy and slow and unrushed. These aren't remnants of his human life, those are things he likes now.

Just like his bikes, like the jalapeno and cheese, like the godawful music he plays at top volume whenever they're in a car. Like the flat screen tv and the whole Bruce Willis filmography, even the Blind Date. Like his computers, the ones he still keeps in the basement and the ones he can't stop buying and tinkering with.

It happens to all the demons who started as humans. Something intrinsic and undeniable makes them cling to such things, the insignificant silly trinkets, the contrived human activities. There are demons obsessed with baseball, there are demons who can't live without pizza, and there are demons who spend fortune in Vegas, and when you are a demon you can come by quite a fortune to lose.

It happens to all the demons who started as humans, one way or another. Nate isn't sure if it's just him, or if it just doesn't happen to the fallen angels. Data is not conclusive, he hasn't met that many of others, only two. He knows of one more, there are rumours of some others, but they're just that, rumours. Of course there's Lucipher, but Nate isn't quite wild about comparing himself to Lucipher.

All the others are... detached, might be the word. Unconcerned. Like they have given up on any feeling, on any thing, once they have fallen. They're pretty damn good at what they do now, they follow orders to the letter, with an ease practiced through milennia in an angelic garnizon, but they don't care. Not about anything, not about anyone.

Nate thinks he might have been like that, once. Or he might have become like that. After all, he watched human cities rise and fal, watched centuries pass, and all he felt was curiosity at the things he didn't understand.

"You think too much," Brad tells him, sprawled on the couch. They have nothing much to do until Poke returns from his recon mission, after he took it up on himself to spy on the other side. If it's still the other side, that is. It might be more a case of a rock and a really hard place.

In the meantime, Brad has called it a non-working night, saying that he needs to remind himself what he's fighting for. Apparently, it's take-out and the second Die Hard.

"According to you, I always think too much."

Brad makes a noncommital noise. "Are you any closer to figuring out whose fight is it?"

"No," Nate admits.

"Then it's not yours, at least not for the night."

There's no use arguing, really. Mostly because Nate doesn't want to argue.

They have reached... well, they have reached something. An impasse, a contemporary truce, maybe. Brad doesn't seem quite angry anymore. Disappointment still clings to his skin like a shroud, there to see whenever Nate looks at him. He's disappointed with Nate, for the first time ever, and it hurts more than the anger has.

Nate more than deserves it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish things were different.

"Does the night have to have Die Hard in it?"

"No appreciation for the classics," Brad says with dry disapproval. "My house, my couch, my movie choices. You don't like it, you can-" He stops mid-sentence, turns his attention back to the tv, fiddling with the remote. He ups the volume by three bars and then lowers it back by two. His mouth works around something he doesn't say out loud.

"Die Hard it is," Nate says quickly. "Is this the one with the fire sale?"

Brad rolls his eyes. "Have I taught you nothing? No, it's the one with the plane. The one with the fire sale was..." he catches on and shakes his head. "I can't fucking believe you've watched it. I've had to promise you sexual favours when the third one came out to get you to watch it."

"What can I say, you must have rubbed off on me."

It takes Brad a long moment to say anything. "In a good way, I hope?"

The uncertainty in his voice stops Nate short. Something in his chest clenches, almost painfuly. "Brad," slips past his lips and Brad closes his eyes, reaches out blindly but his hand finds Nate's easily. "Always. You've made it worth it."

"What?"

"Everything," Nate offers. The word surprises even him, but it's the truth. Maybe the other fallen become detached and withdrawn because they don't have this. They don't have this to ground them and make their existence actually mean something.

All the demons of human origin find something that they live for (it's a working definition of living), something that makes them almost human. Human in the best and worst sense, and Nate has found the best one. He understands now.

Brad squeezes his fingers. "Just... watch the movie," he says, and what he means is not yet. Neither of them is ready just yet, Nate still has a confession to make and he needs Brad to be willing to listen, and capable of making a decision that won't be dictated by anger.

For now, he allows himself this moment, his hand in Brad's. Brad doesn't say a word when Nate shifts, lets his head fall onto Brad's shoulder. He only turns his head just slightly, his mouth pressed to the top of Nate's head.

*

The first time they've done California was sometime in the late nineteenth century. Second time was in the twenties, for a couple of years. Lots of people willing to sell their soul in the twenties. Ray started to hang around at that time, following Brad pretty much everywhere. Nate remembers the low pangs of jealousy, even though it has been unsubstantiated.

Jealousy was such an alien and strange emotion he actually enjoyed it. For the first few days at least, before annoyance settled in, before Brad finally rolled his eyes and bitched at Nate for quite a while while simultanously stripping him down and leading him into their bedroom.

Nate thinks it might have been the first time they've actually had a bedroom. Had a house.

But the one Nate remembers most fondly is the third thime in California. They've kept coming back, because Brad loved the place more than Nate could love anything but Brad.

Third time was in the late fifties. Nate has been between assignments, hell was in one of its more hectic periods, and Brad was taking a break just because. Probably just because Nate has been between assignments.

Instead of at the crossroads, Brad spent days working on his new motorcycle, a clunker of a bike he insisted on repairing himself, with his own hands and not with his powers like anyone else would. Nate didn't quite understand why, but he was fascinated by the whole process anyway, by the parts scattered in the garage, by the dark smudges on Brad's fingers and wrists. The oil got onto his face too, got on Nate's face a few times. (Got on his thighs and his stomach once, dark smudges and Brad's fingerprints on his skin. They've washed away quickly, but Nate could see them, feel them, for days.)

He remembers watching Brad work, brow furrowed in concentration, hands sliding gently over the engine. He remembers Brad working and remembers marveling at the love inherent in every gesture. How could someone love a machine?

Then again, how could anyone love without a soul? And yet.

"You think too much," Brad told him, stretching on the floor and looking up. His left foot kicked at Nate's ankle. "And quite probably not about what you should be thinking about, either."

"I'll bite. What should I be thinking about?"

Brad smiled, rising to his feet easily. "How about I show you?"

Later, Brad rolled to his side, head propped on his hand, looking at Nate all too seriously. His other hand was flat on Nate's chest, half an inch away from his heart. It was beating. Bodily functions came and went, not necessary when you were a demon but instinctual nonetheless, gone when you willed them to but back whenever you stopped paying attention.

(When he was with Brad, his heart was always beating, his breath was always there to catch. His hands were suddenly capable of shaking and his pulse coud rush, deafening and mad. It seemed to get more intense with time, too.)

Brad's hand was on his chest and he leaned forward, his mouth close to Nate's shoulder, almost brushing it when he spoke. "Do you remember when we met for the first time?"

A chill run through him, spreading from Brad's fingertips. Goosebumps appeared on his arms, another physical reaction he can't contain. "Why?"

"I've been trying to remember. Must have been sometime in the thirteenth century, right?"

It was the right moment to shake his head, to confess his sins. Except he wasn't sure if Brad would forgive him, and the thought of the warmth in his face turning into cold, the soft touch becoming steel, it was unbearable. One day more, Nate thought, like he had before. A moment more. This moment.

"1238. A summer day, early morning."

"How can you be sure?"

Nate licked his suddenly dry lips. "I remember it felt like I was waking up."

*

He wakes up tangled in Brad. His head pillowed on Brad's chest, their fingers still entwined, his body mostly settled in the triangle of Brad's legs.

He doesn't want to move. If possible, he wishes he never had to move at all. He's going to live for an eternity, it could be done, technically.

But right now, despite the way every muscle, every nerve and every bone in his body it screaming at him to stay, he needs to disentangle himself, ease out from under Brad's arm before Brad wakes up.

(It feels good to have slept again. He hasn't done it in some twenty years. He doesn't need sleep, after all, but what he needed, always, was the warmth of Brad's body, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he was always flushed and warm from sleep, the way his eyes cleared when he opened them and looked at Nate. He wonders if Brad had slept in the last two decades.)

He starts to pull away, gently, but Brad's fingers tighten around his wrist, the hand resting comfortably on his back now moving to the back of his neck, keeping him close.

"Just stay," Brad mutters. His voice is muffled, Nate's hair in the way. "I need this moment. Before I remember I should still be angry at you."

"Should?"

"You make it really difficult to be angry at you," Brad tells him quietly, then presses his lips against Nate's forehead, chaste and brief.

This time when Nate pulls away, Brad lets him, shifts on the couch to make space for Nate to sit. "There's something you need to know."

"I've figured as much. It can wait."

"Brad."

"It can wait, Nate. There's the apocalypse to worry about, since you've chosen to drag me into this shit," he shakes his head at Nate's expression. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Well, I would miss it for the world, because it would mean we wouldn't have to, you know, save it," he shrugs. It makes Nate actually smile a little.

Someone clears his throat pointedly and they look up to find Poke leaning against the doorframe. "I'd knock," he says with a wide smile. "But other planes of existence don't have doors."

"Great oversight," Nate admits. "How was it?"

"There's no great mobilization of forces yet, but heaven sent out scouts. You know shit's about to come down when angels walk the earth, ready to dirty their golden sandals and shit."

"Scouts?" Brad prompts.

"To witness the opening of the seals," Nate supplies. "They need to be observed."

"Is this the wrong moment for a voyeurism joke?"

"A little."

"Fuck this shit," Poke shakes his head. "I'm not saying your plan is doomed to fail, Nate, I'd just love to know what exactly your plan is."

Nate shrugs. "You assume I have one. I..." he stops, remembering. Lucipher's war. God's plan. And not their fight. Maybe not just their fight. "I might have a beginning of a plan," he allows.

Brad watches him carefully. They've moved away from the close contact they've woken up in, but their legs are still touching and Brad's hand is still on Nate's knee, heavy and comforting. "What do we do?" he asks simply.

"Go and find an angel."

Poke sighs theatrically. "Good for you. I'm out, I'm allergic to feathers. But call when you have something."

It's two hours later, give or take a week or so (time is relative, especially when you're waiting for an angel) when Mike appears, half-hidden by the shadows on the roof. There aren't many places an angel can blend in comfortably, but the building has enough winged creatures in its design to be sort of a natural fit.

"It's been a long time, Nathaniel," he says kindly, his expression pleasant and welcoming. Nate relaxes a little, he wasn't sure.

"It's good to see you," he offers and reaches out, his handshake accepted easily and warmly. "Wish the circumstances were different."

Brad gives them both a look, his arms crossed when he regards Mike, his entire body posture loudly procclaiming how exactly unimpressed he is. "Speaking of circumstances, under any other set I would have gladly stood here and watched as you exchanged pleasantries for an entire day, but I feel there are some pressing matters that require our attention."

"Brad," Nate says, trying to contain the small smile. "This is Mike. Mike, Brad."

"Mike," Brad repeats, his eyes a little wide with recognition. "And could one ask how the hell you two know each other? I don't recall any recent heaven-hell mixer parties."

Nate realises he should have told him about this, before, but for some reason he's been reluctant. It's not something he likes to talk about. Brad wouldn't have pushed, it wasn't that. But one revealed secret would start a chain reaction, would make Nate want to reveal all.

He always wanted to tell Brad everything, have Brad know everything there was to know about Nate, but he's been afraid it would cost him Brad's... who knew. Respect, trust, love. It would cost him Brad.

He's free of that fear now. Nowhere worse to go.

"We used to work together," he says now, simply. Brad will get it.

Mike snorts. "And by work together, Nate means he was my commanding officer for a couple hundred years."

"Really?" Brad says dryly. He doesn't seem surprised, not a lot in any case. He looks like a piece of a puzzle slid into place, a shade of understanding in his eyes. "You used to boss archangels around. Nate, has it slipped your mind to inform me that you used to be God?"

Mike shudders almost invisibly, the slight twitch of his wings. It's enough of a sacrilege to make him uncomfortable, Nate remembers the feeling. He doesn't respond to it anymore. He does respond to Brad's dry tone, though.

"It was a long time ago, and before Mike was promoted," he offers matter-of-factly. Brad nods in acknowledgment and Nate knows it for what it is, and agreement to postpone the inevitable conversation. "Mike, I suppose you know why we're here."

"On a futile errand," Mike says, regret tinging his voice. "There are... some of us who would choose a different course of action, but it is not our choice. You know that."

"I'm not asking you to join us," Nate tells him. He really wishes he could ask that, but he knows better. Mike's faith in God's orders might not be unwavering, but he deserves better than having to fall because he followed Nate in this. "I just need some information."

"That I can offer. Three great seals have been broken. The armies are ready."

"Armies," Brad snorts, shaking his head. "You know, even the mortals have given up on the concept of the fate of wars being decided in great battles, have renounced total war. Humans have wisened up decades ago and we're here, stuck in the medieval concept of a turf war."

Mike looks at Nate, his smile a little too knowing for Nate's comfort. "You should have trust," he says, an apparent non sequitur, except it's too pointed to be one.

"In what?"

"In God's plan, maybe. But I know better than to try to convince you to this one. In yourself. In him," he adds with a slight incline of his head in Brad's direction. His expression grows serious and he snaps back to business. "There are some who think like you, that this isn't the time, that the humanity still needs a chance to prove itself."

"But they're not going to fight."

"It's not their fight. Well, unless ordered to march against the forces of evil and meet them on the battlefield, of course," he shrugs. "But it's not their fight. It's not yours either."

"Everyone keeps saying that. Things got too fucking cryptic since I chose to fall."

"Humanity," Brad says suddenly, his voice a little awed. "A chance to prove themselves."

Mike nods. "Could be. Has to be, if your plan is to succeed," he tells Nate. His wings are twitching and he looks a little uncomfortable, as if he said too much already. "I don't suppose you'd take my prayers, so I wish you luck."

"Thank you," Nate says, reaching out to place his hand on Mike's shoulder, just for a moment. Before his fall he hadn't thought what he'd be losing and not having Mike's friendship anymore is possibly the worst thing.

"Always," Mike offers lightly, and maybe Nate is wrong. Maybe he hadn't lost it.

"The wings are certainly impressive." Brad is clearly aiming at levity after Mike's gone, and mostly failing. "Did you have to give yours away?"

"I should have told you."

Brad nods. "Yes, you should have. Let's add it to the whole list of things you should have told me and didn't. We could even go as far as to try and figure out why you didn't."

"I didn't want to lose you."

"How's that working out for you?"

Nate bows his head in admission. "Not that well." He looks at his feet then at the sky, anywhere but at Brad. The sky is clouded, it looks like a storm is coming, the air heavy with anticipation. "There's one more thing."

"Just one?"

"Just one," he repeats quietly. "I still have your soul," he says. The words hang between them, heavy and almost unbearable. Nate barges on, trying to fill the silence. "I've always- I've always intended to give it back to you. But when we met again, when I saw you... I don't know why I couldn't then. You didn't remember me at all, at the beginning. I wasn't sure what to even say to you. And later, later I was too selfish."

"Selfish how?"

"I wanted to keep you, for a little while," he says, and damn if his voice doesn't break. "Here," he adds, extending his hand. Selling your soul is as easy as a kiss, passing it on is as easy as a handshake. For something so valuable, something so precious, it's so easy to get rid of.

Maybe that's why it is so precious, when you decide to hold on to it.

"Brad," he says, his hand still in the air, waiting.

"Keep it," Brad says and steps back. His expression is guarded, his eyes unreadable.

"Brad, please."

"We have more important things to do," Brad tells him. "I... Nate, I need to think. I need time to think. Keep it, for now at least."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I suppose I can trust you with it. You've managed not to lose it in a thousand of years, so that's something."

He lets his hand drop to his side, the skin on his palm tingling, on the edge of painful and numb, like after touching ice. "Alright."

*

One of the better things about being a demon, Nate had been told, was the ability to turn off any kind of sensations in the body. Nate hadn't thought it very impressive, angels could do it as easily as they could fly.

Demons couldn't fly. He missed that one a little.

But he didn't quite understand what was so amazing about turning off the sensations, the feelings. Demons who used to be humans found it exhilarating, to never have to feel cold again, never have to burn up in the midday sun.

What was the point? Nate had fallen because he wanted to feel something, something but shame and guilt and weariness.

Now, he looked up at the clear sky, clear and blue, not marred with a single cloud. The sun was up and he felt the sting in his eyes but didn't look away. The air was already hot and heavy and it wasn't even midday yet, the stones under his feet scorchingly hot.

"Would you fucking find some cover? I feel hot just looking at you," someone said and something in Nate's stomach tightened, the voice achingly familiar.

He turned and looked into Brad's blue eyes. Clear and blue. A different body now, a little taller, a little leaner than he had been in life. Darker hair, a more crooked smile. He knew, though. He looked at Brad and knew and his eyes stung a little.

"So, you must be Nate," Brad said, reaching out to shake his hand. "Rudy said I might find you here. Didn't say you were insane, though. Who in their right mind willingly chooses this place in the summer?"

"You can turn it off," Nate told him. "The heat, the humidity, everything."

"I know," Brad shrugged. "Feels fucking wrong when I do, though," he admitted, his lips curling up in a wry smile.

Nate hadn't seen him in two hundred years. Maybe he should have tried to find him, but the first years were confusing enough, when you became a demon, and then he had his orders and hands full with work.

He could feel something stirring inside him. It felt familiar. If he didn't know it to be impossible, he might think it was Brad's soul.

It would be easy now. Reach out again and give it back. Free Brad of him and maybe be free of the feeling deep in his stomach, in his chest, in his fingertips, the lingering ache and want.

"Why did Rudy send you here?"

"Said it was time for me to move up in the world. I would assume it for a lame pun, but Rudy doesn't strike me as the type."

"He isn't," Nate agreed. Brad waited patiently, a hint of a smile on his lips. "My orders will keep me here for quite a while. You sure you can stand the heat."

The hint turned into a real smile, teeth showing. "I can take anything you throw at me."

That was the moment Nate knew. He should have given Brad his soul back, should have walked away then. Instead, he was rooted to the spot, grounded in this place and this time. Content, for the first time. Terrified, for the first time.

He could remember the first boy he met at the crossroads, ready to sell his soul to have that one girl love him back, only him. Nate didn't understand that at all.

He was at a crossroads again. His hands weren't on the ground and he wasn't looking up at the sky. He was looking into Brad's clear blue eyes instead, and he made a wish.

He didn't feel like falling anymore. He already had, and hard.


	3. crossroads

It starts with a choice. Doesn't everything?

(Well, not everything. An avalanche doesn't weigh pros and cons, a star doesn't choose to explode. Some people would believe that those things happen because God decided they would, but God doesn't really take interest in such things most of the time.)

But the matters of mortals, of demons and even, yes, of angels, they come down to these moments. Right or left, yes or no, leave or stay.

A series of choices leads you to the crossroads on which you sell your soul. It's not an impulse, not a quick decision. You have to look, find the truth in the stories, discover the right way. Gather all the necessary items. Make the choice to bleed.

Where do you turn in your darkest hour? Where do you look for the shreds of hope? What choices do you make? Do you wish or pray or hope or do you take the matters into your own hands?

Brad knows he made the choice on his own. If it wasn't Nate who bought his soul it would have been some other demon. Maybe that other demon wouldn't give him twenty two lives, one soul isn't worth that much.

Except, apparently, to Nate.

Souls are commodity, they are currency. They change hands, sometimes a dozen times over. If it's an important soul, it may stay in one demon's possession for a decade, maybe two.

Nate held on to it for a thousand years.

"Keep it," Brad tells him.

He doesn't miss it, not at all. For hundreds of years he never thought of it, not really. Twenty years ago he walked on Nate not because Nate was the one to take his soul, but because Nate never told him and that hurt a little too much, with an echo of something he didn't quite remember.

He does remember now, the memories of his human life have been slowly drifting back in, ever since he remembered the crossroads. He remembers Anna and her warm smile. He remembers being happy, even if it's disconnected from any feelings he has now.

He also remembers the secrets. Anna's smile turning worried and uncertain around him, even though she seemed... happy. Radiant, glowing even, if you're one for cliches. She started showing before she worked up the courage to tell Brad. She was happy to have a child.

She was with a child, and she and Brad had never...

He remembers that but it feels like it had happened to someone else. He can't feel angry about that. (Except that Nate keeping a secret for so long has resonated in his bones, recalled something his mind couldn't convey, couldn't understand.)

He made a choice at the crossroads. Everyone does. A lifetime of choices, all leading up to this, little ones and big ones, everything a steady count-down, a build-up, a crescendo that culminates here, in the dirt, blood trickling down your fingers as you look up and make the wish. Make the choice.

It's not a risk, not really. You'd think that, your heart breathing like a drum, veins filling with fear and uncertainty, but you're not risking anything, you're giving it away. You can't lose your soul, you know exactly where it's going. The only question is, what price will the demon pay for it, and whether it'll be worth it.

When the subject comes up, demons who started like this often disagree. Ray would say he's been screwed at the crossroads and many would agree. Brad would always say it was more than worth it, except that he wouldn't say it to anyone. He might have admitted it when Nate asked, but that was it.

Back then, it didn't really seem like a choice, to be honest. Felt like the right thing to do, like the only thing to do. It was in his power and he has failed his men enough. Anna's baby needed a father, the men's wives needed their husbands. They all had wives or girls waiting for them, all had mothers and sisters and younger brothers waiting for their guidance. They had sons and daughters.

Brad had his soul and it was his to give away.

"Keep it," he tells Nate and it's not a choice this time. He doesn't see any alternatives. It's Nate's. What use would Brad have for it? A demon with his own soul, there must be laws and regulations against this sort of shit. What would a demon become, if he had a soul?

"Keep it," he says, and it's a risk. A huge fucking risk he's taking, his heart beating like a drum and his hands shaking. His hands never shook when he was human, but Nate sometimes reduces him to this, to a tangled mess of emotions and need and uncertainty and want so deep he can't see the end of it.

"Keep it," he says, because he's made a choice a long time ago. He's made a deal and he'll honor it. It's Nate's.

"Keep it," he says, because it's Nate's, already and always.

*

Everyone works the crossroads gig at one point or another. It's sort of a rite of passage, except not as fun as most rites of passage.

There's no fucking involved, for one.

Sure, you get a kiss, but most of the time there's no tongue at all, and the client is half-scared to death and half-out of his or her mind, so it's not fun for any of the parties involved.

Ray kind of likes it anyway.

Not the kissing, that's rather lame and only done because it's traditional and shit, and demons can be worse pussy fundamentalists than angel boys, and you know something is seriously wrong with that shit.

Ray kind of likes it because there's no end to the hilarious reasons people would hand their soul over for. Sure, there's love, there's getting quality pussy or quality dick and that Ray respects and doesn't point his fingers at and doesn't laugh too much. There's the whole martyrdom shtick, and it's boring as fuck but understandable, and sometimes connected to love and sometimes even connected to getting quality pussy and/or dick.

But there are some other, lame-ass retarded reasons. Fame, fortune, a record deal, as if your soul was worth becoming the next teen pop sensation and getting your own little clothes line with glitter and in such colors you'd think a unicorn shat rainbow on it. One idiot sold his soul for a fucking car, and it was a shitty car, too. Looked like a penis, though, so there you were.

People (well, demons) sometimes ask Ray what he got for his soul. Ray strikes a pose, like one of those romantics (not those who believe in true love and long walks on the beach, but like those assholes who did opium and composed weird-ass poems back in the day) and procclaims he did that for freedom and truth and justice.

Well, one of a three ain't that bad.

Brad, the motherfucker that he was, once got the story out of him, mostly by feigning disinterest and telling Ray to shut up and go sell his bullshit someplace they wanted it. (Ray didn't point out that the only reason Brad wouldn't want any bullshit was because he was fully stocked in it. He might point it out any other time, but it was 1987 and Brad was all weepy over Nathaniel and riling him up ended in Brad throwing a hissy fit and disappearing for a few months or a year or whatever the fuck.)

So, the story went sort of like this: Ray has been framed for crimes he didn't commit. He might have committed some of them, he added after a beat, when Brad peered at him from over his scotch. But those he did commit were all in the name of justice and the government was evil and corrupted.

(Brad doesn't believe him, but there's a bunch of textbooks that do. He's a footnote to history, not one of the great heroes, but there's a statue of him in a small town somewhere. The plaque has his real name on it, though, and so he doesn't take Brad to see it.)

And yeah, it's true, he joined the cause for a trim. There was this girl and she had ideals and her cheeks were flushed when she talked of courage and sacrifice, and she was so fucking pretty Ray couldn't think straight. So, sure, his motives were as pure as a filthy handful of yellow snow, but shit, he stayed because they were right.

So, to recap. Pussy, joined the cause, fought the good fight, got caught, got framed for a few crimes he didn't commit and accused of a few he did commit and they had witnesses and shit. Run away from the guards escorting him to his execution, found a handy crossroads, did a dark and blasphemous ritual to summon a demon, as you did.

Sold his soul for ten years and a full pardon.

The girl joined a nunnery.

Ray felt understandably betrayed, a little pissed, and too sober. He found a good bar and a good whore and the next ten years were a little of a blur. Good times, though. He still thinks his soul was worth more than this shit. Should have asked to become the king of France.

Well, maybe not the king of France, considering.

But, back to the point, Ray likes the crossroads gig. It's sort of fitting that he'll be the one to make the most important deal in history.

It won't be about a car or fame or glory. Won't be about pussy or dick. Won't be about love, not really. It will be the one deal Ray won't be able to ridicule, even though he'll try to. It'll be the only deal he won't want to take.

"Just get on with it," Walt will say and Ray won't know what to do, he'll lean in and his fingers will flex in Walt's shirt, his hands clammy and his lips dry, tight. "You can do better," Walt will mutter and slip him some tongue.

It'll be the last time Ray will come to a crossroads.

*

Amy is eighteen when she drives to the crossroads. She will be twenty eight when she'll drive here again. She won't think of running away, won't think of going back on the deal. A deal is a deal and she will get all she wanted, and it will be worth it.

Her brother will be more than worth it, all of sixteen when she'll make her second trip to the crossroads.

All of six years old when he died.

She's eighteen and crying when she's driving. It's a good thing the road is empty, no one out at this time of the night, in this cold. There's no snow yet, but a promise of it hangs in the air. The car bumps on every hole in the road, the old clunker that used to be her mother's and that she got for her sixteenth birthday.

She leaves the keys in the ignition when she gets out to kneel at the crossroads, the lights of the car iluminating the ground she digs in. Her fingers are numb and dirty, her skirt tangles between her legs, her hair falls over her red and swollen face.

Tears fall to the ground but she doesn't stop digging. Dig a hole in the ground, in that hole place the animal bones and a strand of hair. She dug out Snowflake's bones for this, didn't have time to think where else she could find the bones at this hour, fast enough.

They buried Snowflake last fall, in an old shoebox, she dug the hole and her brother held the box and read an eulogy he wrote himself, on a back of some old letter, with crayons. Mother didn't let them put a cross to mark the spot, but Amy found a large rock, smooth and light gray, and they placed it there.

She can't see the ground now, can't see as far as her hands, for the tears filling up her eyes, hot and stinging. She fishes the knife out of her pocket blindly and cuts through her palm, lets the blood drip onto the ground.

"Please," she says out loud. "Please, please, please."

Please let him live. Please bring him back. Please, erase this day, all the tears, her mother's stricken face, gray like ash, gray like stone. Please.

"That's what you want?" the demon asks, towering over her. He looks... almost kind. Calm, steadying her when he pulls her up to her feet. His eyes are blue, serious. Searching. Understanding, like he knows, except how could he, he's a demon.

It's her fault. All he wanted was to climb the tree, see better. He had climbed that tree before, just a few times, when Uncle James was watching him. He was alright, he climbed that tree before. And he was whining a little, impatient, and Amy had other things to do, more important things, she thought. "Fine," she snapped and let go of his hand. "Go."

She snapped at him, she never snapped at him. He was a polite child, full of energy and always bouncing around, but sweet. She snapped, this once, because they all had a busy day and she was tired and there were still things to do.

She turned away just for a moment.

"It doesn't sound very fair," the demon says and she shrugs. Her bones crack when she does, a quiet sound but loud to her ear. She'll always remember the sound, for years.

For ten years, to be exact, and then she won't remember it.

Her second trip to the crossroads is calmer. Her car is a better one, her hair is neatly tied and she's not crying, not at all.

She saw her brother last night, came home unexpectedly. She's been planning it for weeks but wasn't sure she should. Drove all day, radio turned up so she wouldn't have to think, and made it in time for dinner.

She dodged the questions easily and listened to his stories, about school and the trouble he was up to with his friends, and about that one girl from his English class. She felt old listening to him, overwhelmed by his excitment but not less grateful for it.

God, she felt old and she was just twenty eight and she was going to die the next day.

"I love you," she told him and he looked at her like she was crazy.

"Yeah. You too, sis," he said finally, slow like he still wasn't sure what she was on, but earnest and warm. "Hey, are you staying for long? Can I borrow your car tomorrow?"

She laughed. "Yes. Sure you can."

He borrows it to take the girl to the cinema and comes back flushed and happy, with pale pink lipstick smudge on his cheek. "Thanks," he says, tossing Amy the keys.

She catches them easily. "You're welcome," she says and gets in. "Just an errand," she says.

The crossroads looks the same, she could find it in her sleep. She made her way here in many of her dreams, in many of her nightmares. Now, she's not afraid, she's certain.

"Was it all that you wanted?" the demon asks and she nods.

"It's more than enough," she tells him. "He's happy. He's alive," she adds and shrugs, her bones cracking when she does. "But I wouldn't expect you to understand."

The demon looks at the ground, at the dirt in the road. "No, I don't think you would," he agrees.

"What now?"

The demon reaches out, his hand gently cupping her face. "It won't hurt."

"I don't care."

He nods. "I wouldn't expect you to," he agrees with a slight smile, a strange smile. "You're not worried or afraid of anything, except for one thing."

"He's the only one..." she stops. They haven't been close for years, she was too afraid she'd fuck something up again, hurt him somehow. But her brother was the only one who counted for the last ten years, he had to be. She couldn't leave anyone behind, couldn't make anyone promises she wouldn't be able to keep.

Her mother despaired she'd grow old alone but there was no fear of that, really.

The demon nods. "I'll look after him."

Somehow... Somehow she believes him. It's funny, bordering on idiotic, to believe a demon, to trust a demon like that, but she looks in his blue eyes, clear and kind and filled with understanding and thinks that yes, she trusts him with Walt.

"You better," she nods and rises to her tiptoes to kiss him, closing her eyes for the last time.

*

"Humanity," Ray shakes his head, clearly disgusted. "Why the fuck does it have to be humanity? Most of the time they're running around, figuring out if an encountered object is something to eat, run away from, or have sex with. What the fuck do they know about saving the world?"

"It's their world," Nate points out, not unkindly.

Brad snorts and turns to Ray. "Weren't you human a mere few hundred years ago?"

"Fuck off, Brad," Ray tells him. "And also, weren't you? Most of us didn't just appear one day like we fell from the sky," he says with a glance at Nate.

If he thought he'd get any kind of reaction, he was mistaken. Nate sits still, thoughtful.

Brad doesn't pretend not to be watching him. He's a little tired of pretending anything, doesn't need it. The secrets between them, he hopes, are all gone, and it feels like they're building something anew amongst ruins. It feels tentative and uncertain, like a house of cards, except that there's scaffolding that's made of steel.

"In any case, it's a needle in a fucking haystack, and guess what the needle is made of?" Ray asks. It sounds a little rhetorical. "Fucking hay!" he finishes and Brad was right about rhetorical.

He does have a point, though.

They are fucking demons, if anyone knows the dark side of human nature, it's them. The evil people are capable of, they've seen it all. Things hell wouldn't have even dreamed of.

They see love, they see sacrifice, but guess what, all of the ones they see show something like this, they're all dead or they have signed their souls away.

It's a haystack, but it's a thin cover of hay covering a shitload of manure. Good luck finding the needle.

"I might know a guy," someone says, and after a moment Brad realises it was him.

"Yes?" Nate prompts.

"Nevermind. It was a bad idea."

He has promised his sister he'll look after the boy and he has, dropping by every year or so, making sure the kid was alive and well and not terribly unhappy.

He has promised his sister he'll look after the boy. Dragging him into the whole apocalypse business was probably exactly the opposite.

"You want to protect him," Nate says, like he understands. Fuck, he probably does, better than anyone, Brad thinks. "Wouldn't you rather have him make his own choice?"

Sometimes, Brad thinks, sometimes he kind of hates Nate. In a way that tears at his heart and makes him want to crawl inside of Nate somehow...

Maybe he shouldn't call it hate.

"Damn you," he mutters.

Nate smiles beatificaly. "We're all stocked up in eternal damnation here," he says. His hand strays to Brad's wrist and presses against the inside of it, comforting. Brad closes his eyes.

Doesn't look like they have much of a choice.


	4. earth

It starts when they find his sister's body at a crossroads, two miles from their home.

(It starts earlier than that. Walt will never quite understand how earlier, but maybe for him it started with a recurring dream, a haunting dream that was always a nightmare but not quite, unsettling and strange. He dreams of climbing a tree, which was and wasn't the tree in their garden, the one that has been chopped down when he was seven. His foot slips on a wet branch and he's falling, falling for a long time, Amy's scream almost defeaning but at the same time so distant. He wakes up, always, with his bones aching and his mouth dry like ash.)

The coroner judges it a heart attack. She was twenty-fucking-eight, Walt thinks, with no underlying condition, no history of heart problems in the family and a mostly healthy lifestyle. This shit shouldn't happen. 

He's the one who drives to identify the body. Mom doesn't feel well enough, she's having one of the bad days. In more ways than one, Walt thinks darkly. She tries to tell him she's strong enough to go, but her head is spinning when she tries to stand, there's no way she's driving, and there's no way she's going. 

Amy looks peaceful in death. 

People always say that and it's a load of bullcrap, but Walt can't help thinking that that's exactly how she looks. Content. 

Her funeral is on a Thursday, and it seems like it would rain for the entire day, the heavy gray clouds hanging overhead, but it never does, the wind dispersing them in the evening. Mom feels better physically and much worse mentally; she makes it to the funeral but doesn't come down for the wake. 

Uncle James takes care of the most things, thanks the neighbours for the caserole dishes and makes sure they won't bother Mom too much, but in exchange for that it's Walt who has to shake hands and withstand the condolences. He hides in the kitchen for the last two hours and makes sure there's enough ice for the ice tea.

The kitchen windows overlook the back garden. They used to mostly look out at the old tree, but that was a long time ago. Mrs. Sanders is sitting on the back steps with her youngest granddaughter, they must have gone out to get some fresh air. It's rather hot in the house with all the people in. Sandy Sanders (a rather unfortunate name, Walt always thought, but it's kind of adorable on the girl, with her blonde locks and bright eyes) is playing with a plastic ball, bouncing it on the lowest step. She fails it to catch it and it rolls away down the path, stopping by the foot of a tall man Walt doesn't recognize.

Must be one of Amy's collegues from work, although he doesn't look like an accountant at all. 

He doesn't look like he wants to come in at all, doesn't seem like he wants to talk to anyone, and maybe that's why Walt seeks him out. He's had enough people telling him today that they're there for him whenever he needs anything, whenever he needs to talk. 

The man clearly notices his approach but doesn't even look at Walt before he comes to a stop near the guy. For all the world he looks like he's about to turn on his heel any moment now and walk away. 

"There's pie inside," Walt tells him, looking up. He has to look way up, the guy is fucking tall. 

"Not here for the pie," he says dryly, then seems to think for a moment. "What kind of pie is that?"

Walt almost smiles, the corner of his mouth twitching a little as he tries to contain it. "Cherry, most of it." It's like they all made arrangements and there are four cherry pies and only one cheesecake and it's mostly gone anyway.

"I'll pass," the man says. 

"Did you work together with Amy?" Walt asks and gets a slightly weird look, uncertain. 

"We've done business together," he allows. It's not the whole story. Walt might be young, as people keep on telling him, but he's not an idiot. "I should be going. Take care of yourself, Walt," he says, and somehow, it doesn't sound like a platitude, it sounds like an order. 

"Hey, what's your name anyway," Walt asks when the guy steps away, half-turned. He looks at Walt over his shoulder.

"Doesn't matter, not like we'll be meeting again," he says briskly.

"Still, some manners would be nice, if you come to my sister's funeral," Walt points out. He sounds petulant to his own ears but he doesn't care. 

"It's Brad," he says with a nod of his head, like he's conceding the point. "Take care," he repeats and walks away, doesn't look back again. Walt wonders at the quiet insistence in his voice, wonders for a moment what the fuck was this whole thing, who was this Brad and how did he really know Amy.

He forgets about the whole meeting soon enough, there are things to take care of and then there's life going on, as it goes. He forgets Brad and the whole conversation until three years later. 

"Wartime military? Which part of 'take care of yourself' wasn't clear?" Brad asks, sliding into the booth at the coffee place without waiting for an invitation.

Walt stares at him for a long moment before it connects, before he remembers. "Brad? What are..." he starts and then shakes his head slightly. Not the point, not the point here at all. "None of your business."

Brad purses his lips, like he has an entirely different opinion on the matter, but he doesn't say anything. "When are you shipping out?" he asks instead.

Walt isn't sure how he finds himself roped into a few hours worth of a conversation with the guy. He's even less sure how he manages to have a few hours worth of a conversation with the guy and not learn anything about him at all, except that he likes Die Hard movies and drinks his coffee black. 

It's not that he's beginning to think there was more to Brad's and Amy relationship than Brad lets on. Walt kind of figured that out three years ago, but he won't mention it until Brad decides to. Not his business anyway, but it's sort of nice to think that maybe Amy had a boyfriend. She was always working too much and never dated anyone, not that Walt can remember.

(He'll learn much later how wrong he was on that count. It's kind of funny, except not really.)

"I hate desert countries," Brad says, fishing into his pocket for a couple of bills, not even looking at them as he tosses them on the table. Walt glances down and shakes his head; the tip is something like five times the price of the coffees and pastries they had. Who does that?

"It's a good thing you're not the one enlisting, then," Walt tells him.

Brad nods, holding the doors for two girls entering the coffee shop as they walk out. "I guess my days of fighting are well over," he allows. There's something strange in his voice, some distant quality Walt can't quite pinpoint. 

Gulf War, maybe, he thinks. The dislike of desert countries could be understandable. "Were you..." he starts.

"It was a long time ago," Brad cuts him off, not unkindly but firmly. "Take care of yourself, Walt," he says, echoing his own words from their first meeting, even if it takes a moment for Walt to place them. "Don't get yourself killed or we're gonna have words."

He says it seriously, like he means them. Like he means it literally, which, seriously. 

"If I get myself killed you can give me the whole lecture, how about that?"

"Deal," Brad nods and reaches out to shake Walt's hand. Walt returns the handshake and then shakes his head all the way home.

Three years later, when they drive into the ambush on the bridge, he thinks he sees Brad out of the corner of his eye. 

It's impossible. It's more than that, it's fucking ridiculous, but for the brief moment's he's fucking sure of that. Brad looks at him with something like annoyance and shakes his head and that's when Walt feels the piercing pain in his shoulder. 

"I was kidding about that lecture, asshole," he mutters.

"Don't move," Doc tells him sharply. Walt must have blacked out for a while. Doc's prickly tone reminds him of Brad a little. 

"No case-vac," he says and Doc jabs at his wound with something that fucking stings. 

"Lieutenant's call. But I'm recommending it."

"Just take it, asshole," Brad mutters. It might be only in Walt's head. He might be a bit fucked on painkillers or whatever Doc has given him. 

It's the last time he sees or hears Brad... Even if that's only in his head it might still count somehow. So, it's the last time for a long while, until Brad shows up on his doorstep and talks of the upcoming Apocalypse.

Somehow it seems fitting.

*

Brad was never quite sure why he kept tabs on Walt Hasser. 

It wasn't quite an unusual situation. Sure, it wasn't run of the mill either, but deals like that did happen from time to time, a soul for a life, a soul for someone else's happiness. Brad has done it, others have too, and Brad has made that deal with them. He never felt like hanging around their loved ones.

Amy Hasser reminded him of something, of someone. For a moment or for a few years he thought it was maybe himself, younger and braver and stupidly reckless, the same desperation driving them to the crossroads. But it wasn't that, he has come to realise once he remembered his own life, analysed it coldly from the distance of the hundreds of years. 

He can catalogue his feelings from his human life. Not quite remember them but know them, as facts and not as feeling themselves. It was love, yes, for Anna, but most of all, it was duty to his men. Amy was brought there by love, yes, but also by guilt. Guilt so deep it must have reached her bones, guilt so deep it would have made her life unbearable. 

She carried an echo of it through her ten years anyway, but she had made amends at the crossroads. She sold her soul for her brother's life, but also for her own absolution, for her own redemption. 

She reminded him of himself, maybe, but most of all she reminded him of Nate, who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders somehow, whose guilt for sins not committed was etched into his bones. 

And then there was the kid himself, Walt. 

Brad went to the wake because of Amy Hasser, because of the promise he made to her. He never expected to stay and talk to the boy. The boy, who was smart and uncertain and determined to take care of his mother and who should have a chance at a good life, considering what it has cost already.

Then, for some reason, he goes to the kid's high school graduation. His mother can't make it for health reasons and the Uncle is abroad, and well, someone should fucking be there, even if he stays at the sidelines and disappears before it's over.

Next year he makes the trip to see how Walt's doing in college, makes it in time to see the fallout of a break-up with his first really serious girlfriend, the kind you might plan your future with, the kind of a relationship that just about kills you when it inevitably ends. Good times. 

And then Walt starts sniffing around the recruitment offices for the Marine Corps. Brad missed that, never seen that coming, didn't pay attention to the hints well enough. It's been the year 2000 and everyone was pretty damn busy, the turns of the millennia always were crowd pleasers downstairs, but that was no excuse for shitty reconnaissance. 

Brad opposes the whole idea vehemently. And it's not just because he made a promise to a girl a few years back, no, it's because the idea of that kid getting shot at makes his stomach clench unpleasantly. 

There are days he wants to find Nate and ask him if that's how he feels. If that's what he feels when he watches humans, because Nate might try and pretend, to everyone and himself, that he's indifferent to the lives he changes, one way or another, but he's anything but. He wants to ask Nate how he deals with the powerlessness at moments like this.

Then he remembers why he can't. Remembers why he's still angry at Nate. No, not angry, it doesn't quite feel like that anymore, the heat in his stomach is gone, leaving only a lukewarm disappointment in its wake. 

The kid goes to Afghanistan and then to Iraq, to the places he's going to be shot at and where people will try to blow him up. Brad's pretty annoyed with that.

He hates desert countries, he wasn't lying about that. He spent four fucking decades in the desert once, a few hundred years ago, and he still feels like there's sand in uncomfortable places. And it was a different body he had then. He goes to Afghanistan anyway, every once in a while, to check on the kid. He goes to Iraq. 

He's supposed to stand idly by as the things play out as they're bound to, but he alters the course of the bullet anyway. Not by much, not even by an inch. Walt still gets hit. Brad could have prevented that too, but he's selfish enough to want to spare himself more of this fuckery, selfish enough to want Walt back stateside, in a safer line of work.

He never fucking signed up for this. He blames Nate, Brad must have gotten this from him.

"Damn you," he mutters now, and Nate smiles at him beatifically.

"We're all stocked up in eternal damnation here," he says. His fingers press against Brad's pulse, always a surefire way of calming Brad down. "Come on," he adds after a long moment. 

Ray for once doesn't say anything when Nate pulls Brad away into the balcony. It's Nate's old apartment, or maybe their old apartment, the London one, where they stayed for the few years back in the eighties, right before... well, back in the eighties. Brad leans against the railing, resting on his elbows and looking out at the city.

It's all familiar, but pleasantly so, comfortably so, like it hasn't been for a while. 

Nate's hand rests on the small of his back briefly before he slides in next to Brad, their arms touching almost on the whole length. "We could find someone else."

Brad shakes his head. "Ray's right, it's like a giant haystack. Unless you can use some sort of a former angel's mojo and judge people's pure hearts and good intentions, we have to rely on those very few people we actually do know."

"Still."

"He's a good kid," Brad offers, then corrects himself. "He's a good man."

Nate doesn't say anything to that, just moves his hand so it lays on top of Brad's, their index fingers aligned. Brad feels a tremor running down from his wrist, his skin itching at every point of contact, warming up.

"What do you think will happen to us, after?"

Nate shrugs. "Depends greatly on whether we succeed or fail."

"You actually think we might succeed? Interesting." Nate gives him a long look and Brad raises his eyebrows in return. He's not quite sure if he believes this entire venture might work. Maybe it's crazy that he takes part in it anyway, but there you are. 

You do what needs to be done. 

"If we succeed, I'm pretty sure we're done in hell. Or rather, hell will be done with us, and I gather they're quite creative in their punishments. If we fail..." he doesn't finish and he doesn't have to. If they fail, it won't matter.

Nothing will matter, because there will be no world for it to matter in. 

He turns his hand under Nate's, palm up, their fingers lacing together. "What do you think will happen to us?"

"Provided it's not an eternity of torment in the deepest bowels of hell? I suppose that depends on you."

Brad nods. He'd prefer, sometimes, if Nate checked his fucking nobility. It might be a residual angel thing, you never know. Then again, maybe Brad isn't quite blameless in that regard. 

And then again, the one time Nate has acted selfishly it took Brad twenty years to work through his anger and disappointment. And here they are now, and the anger is gone and Brad doesn't want to waste the time they have to feel disappointed.

"I can work with that," he offers. Questions flicker across Nate's face but he doesn't voice any of them, even if he has to bite on his lip, keeping them from spilling out. When Brad leans in for the kiss, he makes sure to lick across Nate's lower lip first, feel the mark under his tongue. 

Nate's whole body relaxes into him immediately, unconditionally, his mouth opening with a sigh Brad it eager to swallow. God, he fucking missed this. 

He might have said it out loud, whispered it against Nate's skin, because Nate tilts his head back, face flushed and eyes bright, so bright, and he looks at Brad. "Don't call out His name."

"I can't believe it's been hundreds of years and you are still hung up on the commandments shit," Brad mutters, shaking his head. 

"It's not that," Nate says earnestly. "But it's just you and me. Not heaven or hell, not what we are or were, and..."

"Don't bring work home, honey?" Brad supplies and Nate laughs, startling himself, laughs honestly and openly. Brad has missed that for sure. "Come here," he says and pulls Nate in for another kiss. 

Just them. He can more than work with that.

*

"An ex-Marine," Ray says, his tone somewhere between mortification and glee. "We're enlisting the help of an ex-Marine to help us avert the motherfucking Apocalypse. Tell me Brad, how many B-class movies have you seen in your existence and why hadn't Nathaniel stopped you?"

"Fuck off, Ray."

"In my defense, he watched most of them during the nineties, I wasn't exactly there to supervise," Nate offers lightly. His hand hovers over the small of Brad's back, fingers skimming over the waistband of Brad's jeans, touching his skin briefly under the shirt. He doesn't seem to even realise he's doing it, but it is as if he couldn't not be touching Brad in some way.

"How did you even come up with that guy?" Ray asks. "I am trying not to be offended here by the fact that you apparently spend your time with fucking mortals and not with your dear pal Ray-Ray."

"Mortals have this nice quality that they disappear after a few decades and I'm not ending up burdened with them for what already seems like an eternity. And I didn't come up with him anywhere, his sister bought his life at the crossroads."

It was worth divulging, to see the expression on Ray's face. "And you what, kept tabs on him? Brad, if you were lonely you could get a fucking puppy."

Brad doesn't dignify that with an answer. 

Half an hour later, upon actually seeing Walt, Ray whistles low. "Okay homes, I see the point of keeping a close eye on that ass. It's not a B-Class movie anymore, with him as the leading man it's a bona fucking fide Hollywood blockbuster shit."

"Ray, focus," Nate says quietly. It has the effect of actually shutting Ray up, Nate has always been capable of that. 

"I promised his sister to look after the kid," Brad says defensively. Ray squints at him but nods, wisely choosing not to ask why. He wouldn't be himself, however, if he didn't comment on something.

"I don't get that. I mean, she probably became a demon herself, I mean, most of the crossroads deals end up like us, right? Why can't she look after her little brother herself?"

"She wouldn't remember," Nate mutters. He raises his head to look at Brad even while he's addressing Ray, holding Brad's gaze steadily. "You can't remember, for the first few hundred years after your death. You can only remember, if you even want to, hundreds of years later, when everyone you knew is gone, when even the memory of you has died. Only then."

"This system is fucked," Ray announces.

"It works," Nate shrugs and his tone pretty much reiterates Ray's point. "Brad, would you like to go ahead and explain the situation a little first?"

"What, you don't want to drop the whole story on the kid, tell him how we want him to be the motherfucking savior of all humankind? You have no sense of humor, Nate."

"It's really tragic," Nate agrees, completely deadpan. Ray throws him a suspicious look, like he isn't sure what his reaction should be. Brad simply nods at Nate and goes to knock on Walt's door.

"I'm not sure if you remember me..." he starts and Walt raises his eyebrows wordlessly before he stands aside and lets him in.

*

Memory is a funny thing, especially when you are a demon.

Well, not really funny at all, not in the laugh out loud sense anyway. When you are a demon you remember all kinds of things, things that happened to others and things that are yet to come to pass. 

You don't remember your human life, not at first. You aren't quite a blank slate, though, you know who you are. Or, you know what you are. You pretty much know your purpose and most of the rules of your new existence, and you know quite well you've made the deal yourself, that you used to be human and that you made the choice.

It's the particulars that elude you. The places, the names and the faces, they blur away and never surface. But never is a short time when you have an eternity, a few dozen lifetimes later you might be able to slowly work through the facts but never understand the feelings of your human life.

There's a reason for it. Unlike some other rules in hell, it's a good reason.

There are three kinds of demons. Those born in hell from the anguish and torment and pain, an altogether sorry lot. Those who fell from heaven. And those who were born of the earth. 

In some ways, demons who used to be human are most valued. They're not as powerful as the fallen angels, not even the oldest of demons of human origin could have a chance against an angel, not in a fair fight. Not in an unfair fight either, and most of demons' fights are rather unfair.

But fallen angels are a skittish sort, withdrawn and distant. They don't participate in petty fights, they rarely meddle in the affairs of other demons. They're obedient to their superiors but disengaged otherwise, more of a legend than an everyday hellish existence.

Nate wonders sometimes whether they have gotten it right, whether he wouldn't be better off removing himself from the earthly or demonic matters. Learn how to switch off the feelings he had picked up along the way.

But there's Brad, and so it's never a viable option.

Brad isn't... Brad isn't a typical demon either. Nate might be biased, of course. He knows he is. But it doesn't change the facts. 

Human demons are valued in hell because of their humanity. Not tempered by their soul or the conscience anymore, they have an imagination that the demons born in hell could never comprehend. That imagination is their most dangerous weapon, making them capable of coming up with most unusual cruelty.

There are those who find other pursuits, like Ray's neverending quest to mock everything in the world and beyond it. And then there's Brad, who needs to keep the promise he made to a girl selling her soul for her brother's life.

The dark side of humanity is what makes the hell thrive. What remains of its best in hell's demons is what could prove to be its downfall. That's why the rules are in place. You can't care if you don't remember. 

The removal of your soul doesn't mean you stop caring. The memories are the last link that needs to be severed. And when that proves to be impossible, they are suppressed, for long enough to not matter anymore, to be a mere echo of what they were. 

Once everyone you loved is gone, once every trace of your life has been erased, once there's only grass in the place of what used to be your grave, only then you might recall your life. At that point, it doesn't matter at all.

Sometimes, Nate thinks, it might be a blessing. (It still feels like a sacrilege to say, but he doesn't care anymore.) 

He remembers Brad when they met for the first time, at the crossroads. 

When someone calls upon a demon at the crossroads, when someone is ready to make the deal, the demon can look into their heart, into their mind, and most importantly, into their soul. It's not that different than checking the merchandise, after all. Nothing all that special about it. 

Except that one time. He remembers the pain, the determination, the acute disappointment Brad felt. Disappointment with himself. Nate looked at him and couldn't understand how that could be possible. How anyone could look at Brad, into Brad, and feel anything but love.

It was the first time Nate thought that maybe he was capable of love. It felt a little like falling. It felt a lot like flying, high above.

He remembers Brad when they met for the third time, first time for Brad in some ways. 

Brad looked at him with curiosity and humour but without recognition. That could have been disappointing, except that it was expected. It could have been disappointing if Brad's eyes weren't so clear, all the pain and worry and guilt and all the disappointment with himself gone completely. 

Nate has many regrets about that moment and many that followed, about some of his actions or about the things he should have done but didn't. And yet, he can't quite bring himself to regret his part in keeping Brad from remembering all that brought him to that crossroads.

*

When Brad finishes explaining why he's here, Walt doesn't quite laugh in his face but it's a near thing. 

"I think I need something to drink," he mutters and rummages through the fridge. "Do demons drink beer? Do demons even drink at all?"

"Not if the shitty beer you're holding is the only thing you've got to offer. And isn't it too early in the day for booze?"

"I've figured you'd approve. Aren't you supposed to tempt me into doing all sort of stuff like drinking or drugs or, I don't know, going on a killing spree?"

"I'm on my day off," Brad quips. His voice is deceptively light but his eyes are careful, assessing. He accepts the bottle out of Walt's hand cautiously, his movements slow like he's coaxing a scared animal. It's sort of annoying. 

What's even more annoying is that Walt actually believed every word of the story. Not just because Brad apparently hadn't aged a day in the last ten years, and not just because he's beginning to suspect that one time he saw Brad in Iraq wasn't a stress-induced hallucination, but because somehow, deep in his gut, it feels like the absolute truth. 

Could be an indigestion starting, though.

"You know, when I was in the hospital there was this guy who had a mental breakdown," he starts conversationally, taking a swing from his bottle. "He talked to angels and shit."

"Probably just fucking crazy. Angels are assholes," Brad says, and it sounds like it needs a punchline so Walt waits. He isn't disappointed. "I should know, I've been sleeping with a fallen one for the better part of the last millenium," he says fondly.

Walt shakes his head. "I don't even know what to say to that," he concludes. "Fuck."

"I know it isn't fair, dropping it all on you. But we're on a tight schedule and believe me or not, demons don't exactly make a lot of nice human friends they can ask for a favor."

"We aren't friends either," Walt points out.

"I think you're making my point rather than undermining it."

Walt sighs. Getting into any kind of a debate with someone who a) isn't human and b) has a few hundred years experience on Walt would be really counterproductive. He's still not entirely convinced he hasn't been in some kind of accident and isn't having an especially vivid hallucination. "Why are demons trying to save the world?"

"Because as I mentioned already, angels are assholes and they don't want to help."

"Makes sense," Walt deadpans. "And you're asking for my help because what, there's no one advertising in the Yellow Pages as the world-saving Chosen One?"

"If you want some kind of a rousing speech moto bullshit I can get Nate to give you one. He's much better with words and he could probably pull it off without making faces. But if you want the straight answer, yeah. We can find someone else. It will take a while because believe me or not, demons don't make acquaintances with good men all that often."

Walt starts to protest, wants to point out they have that wrong because he's not a good man by a long shot, but Brad raises his hand, something in the accompanying gaze silencing Walt effectively. Might be a fucking demonic power, you never know.

"The destiny crap is just that, crap. Anyone could try what we're trying. Not everyone would bother, I suppose. But I'm here and I'm asking if you'd help us."

What do you say to that? What can you say?

"Yes."

Brad nods, like he hasn't expected anything else. "I'll let Nate know we can move on to the planning stage. And before they arrive, I'm really, really sorry for Ray's... well, everything. He's rather special."

Walt wants to ask what he means by that. He has to say, he's morbidly curious as to what 'special' entails when describing a demon. Three seconds later he has his answer (later he'll realise it's not even an introduction to the real answer), when two men materialise out of the thin air and the shorter one grins and winks at Walt.

"So, he's in, homes? Fantastic, now please tell me the whole world-saving business is all about a virgin sacrifice and he's it."

Walt thinks beer isn't enough for this, he might break out the whiskey he's been saving up for a special occasion. You don't get more fucking special than the end of the world, right?

*

Ray isn't quite sure why he joined the fucking rebellion, or revolution, or resistance, or whatever the fuck they're running here. Sure isn't a lemonade stand, even though it's haphazardly put together like one. 

Ray has never been an idealist. He died for a cause, sure, in a way. More like, joined the cause, fought for the cause, got fucking caught and then sold his soul to get out of dying for the cause but ended up dying anyway, because that's how that shit went. 

That one he joined for a girl. He remembers her now, when he bothers to think of his human life. She was pretty and determined and her eyes were bright and her hair was shiny and her breasts were... well. Fucking ace. So Ray can't be blamed for going a little overboard in fighting the evil government and shit. 

At least, that's what he thinks happened. He remembers the events quite clearly, but his feelings at the time are something of a mystery. Those he can't remember. Sometime he thinks he might have believed in the cause... must have been because he was pussy-whipped.

Now he doesn't even have that as an excuse.

Not that Brad and dear Nathaniel aren't very attractive, but Ray would sooner go kick Lucipher in the nuts than step into that. 

And yet, here he is. It might be because there's no way he's letting Brad have all the fun in stirring up shit, and it might be because Nathaniel can be pretty fucking persuasive when he wants to, and it might be because Ray fucking likes the world much more than when he was alive. They have every porn imaginable now. And great booze, and Skittles, and caffeine. Ray kind of wants to see what they'll come up with next. 

It might be better if they had any sort of a plan, but if Ray had faith in anything (and if he did, it wasn't much), it would be in Nate's brains. They had an unfortunate tendency to turn into mush when Brad was concerned, but other than that, he was pretty damn sharp, he'd figure out what needed to be done. They've already figured out that they'd need a human.

And speaking of the human.

Sure, Ray was curious the moment Brad mentioned him. To hold Brad's interest the kid had to be something, of course, but Ray hasn't imagined this.

Ray's not nearly a thousand years old, like Brad is. He's not a fucking fallen angel either (and honestly, they should have seen that coming. Fuck, it was enough to look at Nathaniel to figure it out.) and he's motherfucking glad of it. He's just a few hundred years old and doesn't have any special powers or whatever, but there's few things any demon knows.

How to look into hearts and minds and souls. How to look at a person and know their darkest thoughts and desires, to know what buttons to press to lead them to damnation. That's easy. 

How to look into the past and find the worst secrets and the most painful moments, how to use them like a knife and how to cut deep.

How to look into the future and how to steal every happy moment waiting there. 

Every demon knows how to do it. They don't always choose to, but the knowledge is there. Ray takes no pleasure in bringing pain, he greatly prefers bringing humiliation, as long as it's hilarious. It's the best part of being a demon, if you ask him. 

And then Brad goes and introduces Walt fucking Hasser to him and Ray feels like someone hit him over the head with something heavy like a motherfucker. 

He grins and winks, because that's what Ray does. "So, he's in, homes? Fantastic, now please tell me the whole world-saving business is all about a virgin sacrifice and he's it." He can't quite hear his own words over the ringing in his ears, unfamiliar and fucking annoying. 

Walt gives him a look and turns to Brad. "That would be Ray, I presume?"

"The one and only," Brad agrees. Apparently he has been maligning Ray, the fucker. And all Ray has done for him was to be fucking supportive when he and Nathaniel had their quiet days. Or decades. 

"Don't listen to a word that fucker said. Demons are pathological liars."

"Aren't you a demon too?" Walt asks, crossing his arms, unimpressed.

"Maybe. Would you like to check me for horns and a tail?"

"Ray," Nate says quietly, stepping forward. He even put his serious face on. Not that Nathaniel is anything but serious most of the time. Sometimes it seems like he only smiles for Brad, and that's just too fucking gay.

"I'm just saying," Ray shrugs. "If the kid needs someone to make a man out of him before the end of the world, I'd like to offer my services."

"Good few years too late on that," Walt mutters darkly and some part of Ray sits up and begs. It might be his dick. He's not proud of it, but there it is.

But if it was only that, only the pretty face and a rather spectacular ass, Ray would be fine. But he can look into Walt and see the core of steel and the broken heart and the painful memories and he wants to make it better. He wants to wrap himself around Walt and keep him safe.

This shit doesn't fucking compute.

If that's what Brad feels when he looks at Nathaniel then Ray takes back every time in the last couple hundred years when he called him a fucking pussy. Because if Nate...

Wait, Nate is saying something. Ray tunes back in, turning his attention away from Walt. It's harder than you'd think. 

"Three seals have been broken, there's still time. If we stop the fourth from being broken, we have a chance of keeping the horsepeople from riding out."

"Fourth seal..." Brad starts.

"Death," Walt supplies and shrugs. "Sunday school," he adds in a tone of explanation. Of course, Ray thinks. "So what, you want me to stop Death? I think I need to sit down."

There's a note of panic in his voice, like the whole thing is just kicking in. Ray automatically steps forward, but Nate gets there first, his hand on Walt's shoulder, comforting. "It's alright," he says, his voice perfectly even and calm and Ray is standing a good few feet away but he feels the echo anyway, his whole body relaxing, mind slowing down.

Fucking angels. 

"I can get him there," he finds himself saying. Nate looks up, eyebrows raised questioningly. "War is going to know where it'll happen, all the horsepeople are like this tight. And Walt's going to need back-up."

Nate nods. "He's going to need more than back-up but we'll get there. You think War will tell us anything? Last time..."

"I might be able to convince her," Ray shrugs.

"War. As in Four Horsemen War?" Walt asks.

"One and the same. We used to... well," Ray shrugs, for once not quite eager to rely all of the things they used to get up to. Brad gives him a strange look but the asshole doesn't have a higher ground to stand on, really. 

"You know, I was going to spend the evening watching the game," Walt mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. "Didn't know I'd have stopping the apocalypse, keeping one of the seven seals from being broken, and going to see one of the Horsemen of the apocalypse as an alternative."

"Horsepeople," Ray corrects him. "She's sort of sensitive about that one."

"Of course she is," Walt nods seriously. "Do I get a sword or something too?"

Ray supposes he would fall in love with him right then and there if that hasn't happened already the moment he laid eyes on the guy. 

*

"You were right," Nate says once Ray and Walt disappear to talk to War. Brad was half tempted to accompany them, just to make sure Walt would be alright, but one, War kind of worries him and two, he had seen the look on Ray's face. Walt will be more than alright, Ray will make sure he'll be safe.

"I'm usually right," he says automatically, reaching out to run his fingers through Nate's hair. He missed doing this and he's going to use any quiet moment they have now, and not only because they might not have many left. "What was I right about this time?"

Nate smiles slightly and leans into the touch obligingly. "Walt. He is a good man. He's a good choice."

"I wish he wasn't. The kid's been through enough."

"Are you regretting dragging him into the apocalypse or introducing him to Ray Person?" Nate asks, fighting a grin and Brad nods.

"The latter might be worse," he admitted. "So, about the sword Walt mentioned," he says and there it is again, the same flicker of... something on Nate's face Brad would have missed when Walt mentioned it if he didn't happen to look at Nate at the time.

To be fair, he spent quite a lot of time looking at Nate, so chances he'd miss it were slim. But still.

"You might as well tell me, because we don't have time for me to get it out of you by sucking your dick."

"That's a great pity," Nate says mournfully, then sighs. "I might know the location of one of the flaming swords."

Brad narrows his eyes. "Might know? We're not going to see one of your angel friends again? Because Poke was right, I think those feathers are causing allergies."

Nate shrugs. "It's not like they had me clean out my locker and turn in the stapler when I quit," he offers and his matter-of-fact tone startles Brad into a laugh.

"You know, I've heard some mortals steal office supplies from their employers but you've managed to make it out with one of the flaming swords the archangels carry? I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Just one reason?" Nate asks.

"Fishing for compliments, Nathaniel?"

"I thought I might at least get something, if you're not going to suck my dick," he offers dryly before he closes his eyes and turns his head a little more, nuzzling into Brad's palm that is still cupping his face. Brad wonders if Nate suffers from the same affliction he seems to; it seems he's become incapable of not touching Nate whenever they're close enough. 

"Later," he promises softly.

Nate nods and opens his eyes, making a visible effort to come back to business. "It might be an advantage, but using it poses a danger. Every angel would be able to know exactly where it is, where we are. Or where Walt is."

"Would angels actually harm a human?"

"Which Bible have you been reading?" Nate asks darkly and shakes his head. "Maybe it won't get to that point."

"Yes, try that once more with actual feeling," Brad tells him and leans down to kiss him, brief and chaste, because they really don't have time for this.

Then again, time is relative, when you're a demon. Maybe they do have a few moments for this. If they don't, then what the hell are they even fighting for here?

Nate seems tired. Demons don't need sleep, not really. It feels nice sometimes, but it's not needed, none of the bodily functions is necessary. It's not the lack of sleep that shows on Nate's face, but the worry and the weariness brought on by guilt and the weight on his shoulders. 

"You remember the first time we met?" he asks and Nate gives him a long look.

"Which one?" he asks and Brad smiles, because it's just the question he expected. 

"The third one if you're sticking to the chronological approach, I suppose. The one that counts," he offers. "You've asked... You've asked if I could stand the heat."

"I think I was speaking literally. It was rather hot at the time."

"Shut up, you're spoiling the moment," Brad tells him. "And I told you I could take anything you'd throw at me. That hadn't changed, you know?" 

The corner of Nate's mouth twitches. "You're saying I shouldn't feel guilty about dragging you into this mess?"

"Where you go I have no choice but to follow," Brad shrugs. "It's alright. And since I'm here, I suppose I can keep an eye on Walt too."

He won't be alone in that, judging from Ray's reactions. And something tells him that Walt is going to prove to be pretty capable of keeping himself safe too. And all of them have Nate. Most of all, Brad has Nate. 

When he thinks back to that first meeting he remembers the wonder he felt looking into Nate's eyes. Like he knew him. Now he knows it for the truth, but it doesn't take away the feeling, because it wasn't like that. It wasn't recognition as such. It didn't matter that they met before.

It was about looking at Nate and knowing. Knowing what he wanted, what he needed, knowing how his future would turn. Knowing that he'd do anything, go anywhere, for Nate. Instant and undeniable.

Brad thinks that maybe he lied to Walt, maybe there is something like a destiny. Only it's not the case of what the future holds for you or what will happen, it's about finding that one thing that grounds you, your center and your home.

If he's honest with himself, this is the reason he wants to save this world. For Nate. 

"Hey, you remember the first time we met?" Nate asks slowly.

"Which one?"

"The third one, I suppose."

Brad smiles and bows his head. "I might," he allows. 

"It was the first time I was... glad. That I had fallen. That I could be there, in that place, at that moment. Because you were there."

Brad's fingers tangle in Nate's shirt as he leans forward and rests his forehead on Nate's. "Would it sound wrong if I said I'm glad you have fallen too?"

Nate huffs a laugh, the warm air tickling Brad's lips. "Yes, very wrong," he agrees right before he kisses Brad. 

They might not have much time, but they have this moment. As far as Brad is concerned, this moment lasts forever.


	5. death

It starts with death.

More things do than people would think. At their core, stories are about death, human lives are about death. There's no life without it, after all. People seek death and find it, defy it, try to escape it, cheat it and desire it. Give it and take it into themselves. 

Some will spend their entire lives living in its shadow, finding new ways to try and postpone the inevitable. Some will welcome it like a long awaited friend. Some will desire it like you would a lover. 

Demons... see, demons are different. They had known death, those who used to be humans. Even if they don't remember it, they have tasted it and it holds no sway over them now. Demons born in hell don't understand death at all, they couldn't. They exist in a limbo, in a slow forever. Death doesn't bother with them. 

Then there are the angels and the fallen. 

They don't know death, they couldn't. Some would tell you that angels are jealous of humans. It's not quite true, jealousy is not the right word to use, jealousy burns hot and if angels feel anything it's cold, cool under their skin. 

If angels are envious at all, then they're envious of the three things only humans have: God's love, free will, and death.

You have to live to die and angels don't live at all, they exist, no beginning and no end, frozen in the moment and frozen in the eternity.

(Ray sometimes calls Brad the Iceman. It's a private joke, one Nate isn't quite privy to; it has been explained to him once or twice but like with most private jokes, you'd have to be there. 

Ray sometimes calls Brad the Iceman and Nate thinks nothing could be farther from the truth. Nate touches Brad and feels like he's melting.)

It starts with death. Things do, more often than you'd think. Without death there couldn't be life.

It starts with death. Brad's, and in a way it's a beginning for Nate. Ray's, and in a way it sets them all on the road to this. Amy's, and the promise made then. Walt's, and that hasn't happened yet but it's a part of this story, an important part. 

Throughout it all, Nate is. Just exists. 

It doesn't feel quite fair, except that sometimes he looks at Brad and feels like he's dying, and dying feels like a beginning.

*

Ray thinks he probably likes humans more than when he was one of them. Likes the whole world much better, thank you very much.

When he was alive, there wasn't much porn, for example. A few nude paintings here and there, nothing to write home about. And sure, when you saw tits on a painting, they were tits and not plastic bags plasted on a size-zero slip of a girl, but the whole thing was tasteful and shit, and probably had little cherubs in the corner. 

Cherubs were perverts.

(The actual cherubim are creepy. Then again, most angels are, maybe not counting dear Nathaniel, but he's got brains and he got out of that bullshit that is all hippie kumbayah love-thy-enemy crap until someone brings out locusts.)

Anyway, Ray loves porn they have now. One click away from all the sights and sounds you might want (and not want, in some cases, because Ray is a demon and therefore not a stranger to the darker sides of the human nature, but really, why would you, girls? And the cup?). There's 3D porn now, he kids you not.

A long way away from La Maja Desnuda. 

So, porn. Also, Skittles and M&Ms, the ones with the nuts inside. Good beer and tequila. Peanuts in bars. Bars in general, the ones with jukeboxes and wooden tables and waitresses in short skirts. Cable tv and late night talk shows. Sports, especially the ones you don't know what the fuck is going on but you watch anyway, because well, the screen is big and it's sports. So yeah, Ray is all for saving the world.

And some humans aren't bad either and he isn't only talking about the porn stars and the waitresses in the short skirts. 

"This is the bar you choose to meet with your ex-girlfriend who also happens to be the anthropomorphic personification of War? Really?" Walt asks incredulously. Incredulous looks good on him, his brow furrowing a little.

"Did I say anything about an ex-girlfriend?"

Walt gives him a look, all condescension and 'bitch, please'. "If you were looking for a virginal farmboy Luke Skywalker type of your Chosen fucking One you might have to look elsewhere. I know how it is with ex-girlfriends."

Kid's got a point. He also has a bit of a mouth on him and a really nice ass, and the whole talk of virginity is giving Ray ideas and setting up questions he shouldn't want to ask. At least not now when the world is in peril and shit.

"Back so fast?" War asks, sliding into the booth right next to Walt, her hair a lot shorter than the last time Ray saw her. 

"Nice hair," he says, because you have to notice this shit, he's been told. Not only notice but also compliment and all. Trims. Even when they're anthropomorphic personifications. 

She shrugs. "Easier to wash the blood out of, and there's gonna be blood and a lot of it, soon. Hasser," she adds pleasantly, nodding. "I see the boys have figured out whose fight is it."

"Yes, thank you for the cryptic shit," Ray nods. "How do you even know Walt?"

She smiles, fond and sweet. She never smiled like that at Ray, to be honest, but he did get the other kind of smiles, the smirky and mischievous ones before she pulled him down or dragged him somewhere secluded, so there was that. 

"He's a warrior," she explains, reaching out, palm flat on Walt's chest, a little over his heart and closer to his shoulder. "Of course I know him, intimately," she adds and Walt breathes in, eyes closing. 

"Well, isn't that fucking nice. I guess you won't mind helping us out a little then?" Ray asks irritably, shifting in his seat. "We need to know where Death is gonna pop out of his hole in the ground and whack him on the head so he goes right back in, sort of like the fucking whack-a-mole except less fun and with no toy prizes."

"All business and no fun? Are you sure it's you, Joshua Ray?" War smiles and shakes her head. "I expected at least a suggestion of a threesome with your boy here."

"He's not..." Ray catches her smile and sticks his tongue out at her. "You're such a bitch."

"I've been told. But I suppose it takes one to know one," she nods magnanimously. 

"Not that this isn't fascinating," Walt interjects. "But we'd be really grateful for any intel you might have for us. I think we're a little bit in a hurry here."

"Time is relative, sweetheart," War tells him kindly. "You'll figure it out soon enough," she adds thoughtfully. And fucking cryptically. Ray remembers why they broke up, really. 

"Location?" he prompts.

"Death is everywhere," she tells him. At his look she shrugs. "You demons think like humans too often, so literal and narrow. It's not the place that matters. You'll find him anywhere someone dies, anywhere something dies. You just can't see him."

"Not unless you're dying yourself," Walt guesses. "When I was shot I thought I saw Brad. Well, right before I was shot," he shrugs. "Okay, I suppose I really saw him, but at the time I thought I was hallucinating. I remember thinking that maybe he came to get me, that maybe I was dying."

"You weren't," War shakes her head. "But you're right."

Ray doesn't fucking like the sound of it, not one bit. 

*

"Whatever, homes, I'm not doing this shit," Ray crosses his arms and calls up an expression of resolve and decisiveness.

"Don't do that, you look constipated," Walt tells him pleasantly. "You have a better idea. Let's hear it."

"Fuck yeah, let's get back to Nate and have him figure it out. Motherfucker is supposed to be the brains of the operation."

"I don't see what the big deal is, you said you could revive me before I really died."

"Oh, right, before you really died," Ray drawled. To be honest, sure, he said that, but that was before Walt divulged his moronic self-sacrificing plan and all Ray had to go on were innocent questions to the nature and powers of demons. And Walt fucking Hasser was way too good at innocent fucking questions for Ray's comfort. 

That could prove to be a problem in the future. Provided, of course, they survived the fucking Apocalypse.

"Were you just showing off and can't do it?" 

Ray gives up. Walt Hasser is fucking dangerous, with the blue eyes and earnest expression. Fuck.

"Okay. Fuck. But if you die for real, I'm going to kill you," he offers and yeah, he realizes he deserves the pitying look he gets, but whatever. "So, how would you like to almost-die?" he asks. 

Next time he's not signing up for the saving-the-world business. It only leads to stress and giving a shit. 

*

Death reminds Walt a little of Nate. He looks impossibly young and older than the world at the same time, and he smiles at Walt serenely.

He also reminds Walt of someone he used to know but can't quite recall.

"You're not quite what I expected," Walt says after a moment.

Death looks down at himself and shrugs. "It's not unsurprising. But it's just a temporary form, I am different to everyone. A bitter enemy, a monster in the dark, a long-awaited relief."

"And old friend," Walt agrees. He's made peace with death a long time ago, the first time his platoon was under direct fire. It was what he signed up for and there could be no regrets. 

Angels and demons showed up on his doorstep talking of Apocalypse and he... can't quite say he didn't care, because he wanted to help saving this world, it wasn't that. But he's waited to feel a pang of dread, a trace of fear, and there was none. Maybe this was why.

"However, I can't help but notice it isn't your time yet, Walter. Care to explain?" Death says, sitting down on the floor, head tilted back against the wall. Walt joins him down, shoulder to shoulder, and shrugs. 

"The world is ending," he says.

Death tilts his head. "The world is ending all the time, one minute after another."

Great, more cryptic talk. "You know what I mean."

"I am aware," Death agrees. "You can't stop it, Walter. Everyone has to follow rules, even me. The armies of heaven and hell are preparing for the battle, and I am preparing for the great harvest."

"Aren't rules made to be broken?"

"That's a very human approach," Death says, and he sounds wistful, his tone not reproachful but more like fond. "No, rules are there to be followed. If they're not, they aren't rules, they are guidelines or hints. Rules are constant, sacred. Made once and for everyone."

He looks at Walt as if to make him understand, but Walt can't accept this. There has to be some way out of this.

"Of course there is," Death tells him. "There's always a way and there's always a price. And now, it's time for you to get back."

There's a flash of light and then Ray is looking at him with concern. "Did you play chess? Because I've seen the movies and the fucker always cheats."

*

"It's taking them longer than I thought," Brad says, joining Nate on the terrace of their contemporary headquarters. They have a great view of the ocean from here, and Brad is pretty damn sure it's not coincidental, that Nate has chosen the place because he knew Brad would love it.

And he does, but the impending Apocalypse takes a little out of the enjoyment.

"Time is relative," Nate tells him, but the tense set of his shoulders proves that he thinks the same thing. "Ray will look after him."

"That's exactly what worries me," Brad jokes. 

The sun is setting slowly over the ocean. There's something about the view that never fails to calm Brad down. Well, almost never. He tried to spend some time in California in the eighties, right after he and Nate... right after he learned what happened at his crossroads, but all the ocean did was remind him of Nate, calm and beautiful and impossible to know wholly. 

The first time they've come to California together was sometime in the nineteenth century, probably close to the end than not. Time was relative back then even more than it is now, when the human obsession with measuring everything to a nanosecond started to shape the reality of angels and demons alike. 

In the nineteenth century time still stretched out easily, nowhere as liquid and irrelevant as in California, with vast open spaces and the bluest ocean in the world, meeting the open and blue sky on the horizon.

"I could stay here forever," Brad had said and Nate nodded, not quite in agreement but in acknowledgment. 

"Forever is a long time. Let's try for a few decades and see how it goes."

They didn't last that long, Nate got his new orders a few years later and those took him all over the world. They've come back to California a few times after that, though, and if there was a place to call home, it might have been that.

Now Brad knows why it could be, now he remembers his human life, in pieces and from a distance, but he knows where his village used to be, he knows where his bones rest. 

"I could stay here forever," he says and Nate reaches out, hand on the side of Brad's face. 

"Until the end of the world at least," he says, and the trace of bitterness in his voice is almost lost in the way he looks at Brad. "We don't have much time," he adds.

"Time is relative," Brad tells him. And in that moment, it's more than true.


	6. life

It starts with... no, that's not quite right. There's no clear beginning just like there isn't really an ending. 

Humans seem to have the need of putting everything within a context of a story, a causative narrative with clear and concise beginnings and endings, but life doesn't work like that. It's a neverending stream of events that build upon one another. There's no real beginning. You could maybe argue that the creation of the universe was a beginning, but something prompted that to happen too. 

The only beginning is the one you give a story you tell, the once upon a time of it all. 

This story, if ever told, could have many different beginnings, depending on your point of view.

It could be a story of a young soldier who faced war and death and came home only to be faced with the most difficult choice yet. 

It could be a story of a girl who loved her brother more than her own life.

It could be a story of a man who sold his soul for the lives of his brothers in arms.

It could be a story of an angel who defied his orders and gave up his wings for what he thought was right.

It could be any of those stories, or any of a thousand of others, the only question is what do you choose and where do you start. 

You could start with a group of people (that's not quite right, you could say: a group of beings, but that doesn't have the same ring to it) sitting at a table in a small house in California. The sun has already set and the sky turned gray, but it's still the strange hour between day and night, when everything seems just a bit unreal and otherwordly. 

You could start here.

*

"Great. More cryptic mumbo-jumbo that isn't worth a fuck," Brad runs his hand down his face. "Are they born that way or is there a class you can take that teaches you how to speak like a demented fortune cookie?"

"Metatron gives lectures on the subject on every Thursday," Nate tells him absently without even looking up. He's staring at the wood patterns of the table as if they held all the answers. "That's all he said?"

Walt shrugs. "Yeah. The end is nigh, rules are sacred, there's a way and there's a price. Oh, and the armies of heaven and hell are preparing, which I have to say, doesn't fill me with optimism. I really hope you guys have other ideas than sending me to face the armies of heaven and hell."

"Don't worry, Nathaniel will lend you his flaming sword," Brad offers.

"So many jokes," Ray mutters and shrugs at Brad's look.

Nate looks tired, like he hasn't slept in days, like it's taking its toll even though neither demons nor angels actually need sleep. Brad thinks it makes him look human, and he doesn't even mean it as an insult. 

"At least we've been assured there is a way," he says and squeezes Nate's hand under the table, tangles their fingers together. 

"Death seemed to be saying that rules need to be followed." Walt looks at them, slowly turning his gaze from one to the other. "Fuck, Sunday school never taught me what to do in case of an Apocalypse. Aren't there some guidelines?"

"Yeah, for demons it's grab your weapon and go fight the evil fight. For humans it's probably roll over and die," Ray grins without any cheerfulness. "I'm not sure how it is for angels, it's either sit in the circle and sing kumbaya, or cause the rain of blood. Could go either way with that sorry lot. No offense," he tells Nate. 

"So, humanity doesn't stand a chance," Walt concludes.

"That's not..." Nate shakes his head, turning his hand in Brad's, palm up. "Humans always found the ways out. Even with the decks stacked against them, Faustian tales can be tales of redemption."

"But the rules are against humans most of the time," Brad argues. "Just when you think you have it made in comes the happiness clause or whatever, and you're completely screwed."

"I don't know," Nate said with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've managed to get twenty-two lives from me and there was no small print..." he stops, the understanding dawning on Brad at the same time.

"That was different," he says slowly. "That was a crossroads deal."

"Twenty-two lives?" Ray shakes his head. "No one can say you're cheap, Brad."

"Why is the crossroads deal different?" Walt asks quietly.

"It's customary. There's no haggling about the price, the offer is made and accepted," Nate says. "You take the deal, that's the... that's the rules," he says, wonder coloring his voice. "It can't be that easy."

Brad shakes his head, catching on. "You call that easy? What, heaven and hell are going to accept one soul for the entire humanity?"

"They had once already."

There's no way in... "Is this going to be about Jesus?" Brad asks incredulously. "Because, well, Jesus fuck."

Nate almost smiles. "Don't take his name in vain," he says, all proper and polite, and Brad kind of wants to flip him off, except it would mean slipping his hand away from Nate's hold. 

Ray seems to have caught on, because his mouth works for a moment before he shakes his head. "You want Walt to make the deal? No way," he says vehemently.

"Maybe we'll ask Walt?" Walt proposes calmly. "What's the crossroads deal?"

"Nothing special, you just sell your fucking soul and ensure yourself the eternal damnation. Benefits are good for ten years, then you're fucked," Ray tells him, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair. 

"What are the benefits?"

"Whatever you want, whatever you desire," Nate says. "Wealth, fame, love. Sometimes someone is less selfish, sometimes they ask for a life of a loved one."

Walt's smart, his gaze flickers to Brad immediately, understanding all over his face. Brad's pretty sure his own expression remains impassive, but somehow Walt is able to read it and his eyes narrow, he breathes in sharply and holds it before he exhales slowly. 

"My sister. That's how you knew her."

Brad nods silently, no point in pretending otherwise. 

"I need to..." Walt starts and stands up, heads towards the backdoor and into the garden. Ray throws Brad a long look and follows him. 

Brad's grateful that Nate's fingers tighten around his wrist, keeping him in his place. "It has to be someone," he says.

"Yes, but I don't want it to be him," Brad mutters. He should have thought of that before, when he went out to find Walt and drag him into this, except that it's not like they know many humans, and those they do know wouldn't probably sell their soul for the good of all mankind. "We could sell my soul," he says suddenly. "You still have it, right?"

Nate flinches, his fingers tightening further, to the point they hurt against Brad's skin, digging in, knuckles white. Brad doesn't mind, but it's not very much like Nate. "Of course I still have it," he confirms. "But I don't think you can sell it again and I'd rather not find out what happens when we cheat like that."

"You just want to keep it for yourself," Brad jokes, but it falls flat. Nate closes his eyes like he's been punched. 

"Yes," he says simply. "I know it's selfish, but I've always wanted to keep it safe. But the point stands, I'm not sure it would work. I'm not sure it would work with a human soul as it is."

Brad remembers his human life now, but he can't tell if it felt different when he still had his soul. Can't tell if it allowed him to feel more, feel differently. He doesn't think it could have made what he feels for Nate into anything other than what it is, into anything stronger. 

"I'll go find Walt," he says.

"No need," Walt stands in the doorway, Ray a step behind, looking angry but resigned. "Tell me how to go about making a crossroads deal."

*

Some say it was Adam who made the first deal, some say it was Eve. Some will tell you that it wasn't until much later, and that it started on a dirt road in Rome, when a blood of a runaway slave dripped onto the ground. Some will swear that Lucipher was the first demon who made that first pact, while other maintain it was a simple foot soldier. 

There's no one true story, just like there's no written rules. There's something stronger.

It's written in blood and pacts written in blood are honored, no matter what. It's renewed with every new deal, every new soul changing hands, every drop falling into the ground. It's ingrained deep within every demon - you don't turn the deal down, you don't cheat, you take the deal, you take the soul, you pay the price asked. 

It's in the blood and it's sacred. 

Crossroads aren't really necessary, though not many know that. People like rituals, it seems more valid when there's an incantation involved and it seems more true when you have to bury a handful of bones at midnight. That's masquerade, that's pretty dressing for show. The blood is what matters, the desire and the wish. 

Every culture has a story about a man selling his soul, about a woman making a wish for a price. They are horror stories told around fire and they are fairy tales in children's books, because sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference. They are cautionary. They are instructive. 

So in the darkest hour, when all seems lost, when all you have is a wish, the need, the desire, when all you have to give is your blood and all you have to trade is your soul, so then you know what to do.

*

Of all the places on Earth, Brad would choose California, always. It's in his bones, or more precisely, his bones are here. Maybe that's the reason, maybe not, but that's the place he keeps coming back to, where he feels almost at home, even if Nate isn't around.

When it comes to Nate... he doesn't seem to have a place quite like that, he fits wherever he goes, but doesn't seem quite at home anywhere. 

"Home is..." he started once and closed his eyes, head tilted back as if he was taking in the afternoon sun. "I don't think I want to remember."

Then, Brad wondered if it meant he did remember or not, if he forgot or just didn't want to talk about it.

Now, he wonders what heaven is like, what Nate has given up.

Sometimes he thinks it could be like Greece, the one place that came close to Nate's favourite. They've visited sometimes, not the cities or the ancient ruins, but the small towns by the sea, white and blue, where time stretched out to the point where it disappeared, to the point where it didn't matter.

There was no harshness there, no garish colours or darkness, and everything was old and new at the same time. 

The first time they went to Greece together, Nate stood on a hill, eyes closed and breathing steady. Brad didn't even feel him shaking until he wrapped his arms around Nate.

"You know what I miss, sometimes?" Nate asked, and at the time, Brad had no idea what it really meant, but he made an inquiring sound into Nate's neck anyway. "I miss the open sky, the wind. I miss..."

Brad wanted to say, the sky was there. Right above them, open and blue, meeting the sea on the horizon. The wind was mild and fresh, ruffling Nate's hair. It was all there, Brad wanted to say. 

"Hey," he said instead, and meant to follow it with something more profound, but that was when Nate kissed him, open mouthed and soft, and that wasn't exactly conductive to higher thought processes and eloquence. 

This, the whole thing between them, this was still new and raw and unexpected, and Brad's fingers curled around Nate's arms instinctively, and the moment stretched for an eternity.

"Other times I don't miss it at all," Nate muttered. 

"Have you ever regretted it?" Brad asks now, when they stand on the crossroads and Ray is sulking and Walt is silent, hands deep in his pockets. 

Nate's quiet for a long moment before answering, but he doesn't ask for clarification, he usually gets what Brad isn't saying pretty damn well. "Maybe. Not my decision, but what could have been. Not that easy to give up heaven, I suppose that's the whole point."

"Okay, guys, we're ready," Walt says, standing in the middle of the crossroads. They're doing it old school, properly, as Ray had pointed out that it's a pretty big deal, no pun intended, that it deserved the whole nine yards. 

"We could still try with my soul," Brad offers, Nate's fingers tightening on his wrist. 

Ray shrugs. "No offence, Iceman, but I don't deal in second-hand stock," he says, even though his gaze flickers to Walt like he wants him to reconsider. 

"Here goes nothing," Walt says, turning the pocket knife in his hand before he extends the blade and cuts across his palm, the blood almost black in the greying evening. He crouches and presses his palm to the ground, his movements slow, like he's dragging it out.

Brad's holding his unnecessary breath, and Nate's whole body is tense next to him. This is it, the gamble of their existence. 

"What do you wish for?" Ray asks, and Brad can tell that he's trying to sound pompous, that he's trying to make light of the monumental fucking importance of the moment, but he sounds scared and uncertain and worried. 

"For the mankind to be saved. For the apocalypse to be postponed," Walt shrugs. "Does the next ten thousand years sound fair?"

Ray's expression flickers, but he nods anyway. "Close to seven billion people, ten thousand years. Will you give me your soul in return?"

"Yes," Walt says and makes a step forward. Ray stands rooted to the spot. "Just get on with it," Walt says and Ray stumbles in, his fingers flexing in Walt's shirt. "You can do better than that," Walt mutters and the kiss shifts into something more than just sealing a deal. 

"Well," Brad says, on his way to making a crack about seeing it coming, but when he turns to look at Nate, his head is tilted upwards, his eyes wide open but unseeing, and so green, so bright like Brad had never seen before. "Nate," he whispers hotly. "Nate."

"It worked," Nate says, his voice a little hollow, like he's listening to something Brad can't hear. A thunder rolls, as if to echo his words, and Nate closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, he looks more like Nate, more... Brad's not sure, but for that uncomfortable moment before he had an inkling of what an angel's true form could be like.

"Fucking drama queens," Ray comments, squinting at the sky. "So, that's fucking it? I've expected the earth to open and swallow us back to hell, at least."

"It's not quite so over yet, Joshua," Mike the fucking archangel says, suddenly standing three feet to Brad's left, like he's been there the whole time.

Ray's mouth works for a moment before any words form. "It's Ray," he says finally. "And the fuck?"

"Lucipher's angry," Nate says. He looks between them all before tilting his head. "Can't you feel it?" he sounds incredulous and Brad stills for a moment, lets his awareness extend a little more, and fuck, yeah, okay, there's that, the murmur of the ground, the crackling of the air, making his skin crawl. 

"So, we pissed off the boss," Ray shrugs, managing to sound much more confident than he looks. "Just another day's work, homes. What's the worst that can happen, right? Except that we're all gonna die horribly and in quite inventive ways."

"How is God?" Nate asks and Brad rolls his eyes.

"That's what we're concerned about? God's fucking feelings? Or was that a general question on his well-being? Because I'd assume he's fine, given the fact that he's, you know, God." 

Mike ignores him, speaking over him serenely. "You could probably find out," he says and reaches out, extends his hand towards Nate, who nods slowly.

"Give me a moment."

Brad shakes his head. "Nate, don't."

"I need to. It'll be fine," he says and Brad's tempted to say that no, no fucking way in hell or heaven does this have any markings of being fine, and that they were supposed to be done with lies, and that he's not letting Nate go anywhere. 

"If you say you're assured of this, I'll kick your fucking ass," he says instead. 

Nate laughs, looking... young. For the first time Brad knows him, and that was a fucking long time by any standards, he looks young and human and vulnerable. "Thank you, Brad," he says and reaches out, and Brad accepts the handshake automatically, before he thinks, before he catches on that Nate is doing this because it might be a goodbye. 

"You asshole," he says as the current races from Nate's fingers up Brad's arm, hot and cold at the same time. 

Nate smiles. "I love you too," he says and steps back, looks at Mike. "Look after him for me?" he asks and Mike nods. 

"Of course."

Fucking angels, Brad thinks when they both disappear in the blinding flash of white light. Fucking Nate. 

"So," Walt says dryly. "I'd say this was an interesting day."

Ray snorts. "Understatement, homes. What sort of a cryptic burning-bush bullshit was that? Can a fucking angel just show up and whisk Nate to the gay land of harps and sandals? What the fuck was that whole handshake thing, I mean, are angels above some tonsil hockey?"

It's buzzing under Brad's skin, the sensation alien but familiar, long-forgotten and welcome. "My soul," he croaks.

"What?"

Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. "Nate gave me my soul back."

Ray raises his eyebrows, staying silent for a grand five seconds. "Right. Okay. Of course, you get your soul, Walt gets to save the mankind, Nate gets his wings or groove or whateverthefuck back, and I possibly get a target on my ass because Lucipher is going to end me. Everyone happy?"

"I don't think..." Brad shakes his head, willing himself to concentrate on the present. His head hurts and his breathing is a little too fast. "I think you'll be fine. You hold the key to the most important contract in the entire history of the crossroads, that should keep you safe for a while."

"You think?" Ray makes a considering sound under his breath. "Huh, this could work."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Walt says from where he's bandaging up his palm with a torn piece of his shirt. "It worked, guys. We've saved the world, can we take a moment to think about that before we concentrate on the worst possibilities of the aftermath? And I wouldn't mind it if someone took me home," he adds, poking Ray's side. 

"I could do that," Ray agrees readily. "If Brad..." he stops, peering at Brad. "Brad?"

The buzzing gets more intense, Brad's stomach turning with a wave of nausea. Fucking soul. His heartbeat grows faster, almost deafening, and the whole thing is just...

"Fucking great," he says before he falls down, everything going black.

*

Taking the fall was, in some ways, the easiest thing he's ever done. 

(Not quite as easy as falling in love with Brad, but some things are done by choice and some you have no control over.)

It took eons, or minutes, Nate couldn't quite tell, his whole body aching as if his bones shattered, his back hurting as if the wings have been ripped out of him. It hurt for years, maybe hundreds of them, the dull ache of an old injury, the phantom pain of a severed limb. There was never any question about this, he has lost something important.

No, not lost. Gave away willingly, gave it up because staying meant following orders he just couldn't.

Locusts and floods and rains of blood, and the insane tests of faith. Would a father kill his son, would a mother forsake her daughter, everything a test. Blindly follow and never look back, lest you'd be turned into a pillar of salt. If you're lucky.

"Was it worth it?" Mike asked him once, and Nate wasn't able to tell, because it wasn't the right question. 

There was no question of worth when you were choosing between two evils. When you were choosing hell because if you were a demon you at least could understand why your orders were to bring suffering. 

"Have you ever regretted it?" Brad asked, and Nate didn't quite know what to say, because yes, of course, except that he'd make the same choice over and over again. 

The fall was the easiest thing he's ever done, because he simply couldn't do anything else. 

Coming back... it's not the opposite of a fall. It's not a climb or a rise or a flight. He's standing at the crossroads one moment and he's looking up into the face of God right the next, and the most he feels is weariness.

"It has been a long time, Nathaniel," Metatron says, and Nate supposes he's come a long way since his time here, because the first impulse is to flip him off. 

He's been spending too much time with Ray.

"I'm not quite sure what you expect from me."

"You have turned the tide of the final battle, changed the fate of the whole world. You still don't know why you're here?"

God's still silent, His expression impassive, unreadable. Nate remembers this well. 

"I'm not sure how the whole thing works, but I'm suspecting you don't have any authority over me anymore."

"Then why are you here?" Metatron asks and Nate shrugs. He isn't quite sure about that either.

"To see it through."

"Twice you have been right, Nathaniel," God says, and Nate startles at the sound of His voice, resonating in his skull and in his bones. "About mankind, about the chance they deserve. I have listened."

Well. Well, fuck. 

Some time after Nate has fallen the policy of heaven has changed, the harsh and unforgiving God sending his son to save the humankind. Nate has never thought that his fall has even registered for God, but if he had in even the smallest part caused...

He needs to stop being bitter about Jesus, he supposes. 

"I still don't know why I'm here," he points out and God smiles. 

Angels don't experience that often, for the record. They don't even often meet God, they deal with archangels or with the Metatron, they get their orders and they follow them. Being in His presence is rare, Nate has experienced it maybe three or four times in his millennia in heaven. Never in that time did God smile at him, and the sensation is visceral, incredible, hits him low in the gut and resonates through his whole body. 

So that's God's love. Nate understands why so many angels are jealous of humans. 

"You have returned the soul to Brad," God says. Nate wonders if it means it worked, the one final gamble. "It isn't a deed a demon would perform."

Nate shrugs. "I don't work well with rules, apparently."

God nods. He seems... bemused. "We have seen that," He agrees and watches Nate for a long moment. "This is the day of second chances, Nathaniel. I can give you one."

A second chance, Nate thinks. He wants that, desperately, the part of him that regretted the fall has wanted it for the whole time, even when he knew he didn't really have a choice. He wants that, but again, there's no choice here.

"I'd rather..." he pauses, because you don't turn a God's gift down, even when you're a demon. You don't turn down a second chance for heaven, for being in His presence. You don't turn that down, except when you have to. "With all due respect," he says. "Walt and Ray."

God nods, like he has expected that. "Do you trust me, Nathaniel?"

God's plan, Nate thinks. He's been told that from the beginning, God's plan, and Lucipher's war, and humanity's chance to prove themselves.

God's plan. And maybe humanity wasn't the only one who had to prove themselves.

You should have trust, Mike said, and Nate closes his eyes, breathes out an unnecessary breath, and looks up. 

"Yes," he says.

*

Brad wakes up alone, in a place that looks a little like his house in California but isn't quite. 

He's never had clothes in the closet, or the actual food in the fridge. There is a cork board on the wall, with a few pictures and a post it notes about appointments, all info written in short hand that Brad seems to understand.

The pictures are of Brad with... with a family, with friends. A postcard from Paris is stuck in the middle, written in a curly handwriting and dotted with a flower, addressed to 'Uncle Brad'. 

Maddie, he remembers. Her summer trip after high school.

He remembers. A family, a house, sisters and nieces, he remembers a life, a human life. 

He remembers everything else, too, the crossroads, Nate's handshake and the soul passing through his body, finding its place and nesting in. 

Motherfucker.

He closes his eyes and concentrates, but there's nothing. No ability to instantaneously travel, no way to contact any of the demons he knows, no powers, no nothing. 

He has two set of memories in his head, and one of them has to be fabricated. And he has the proof of the photos on his wall and the message on his voicemail from Katherine, and a bruise on his calf where he hit it last week surfing, and...

And he remembers Nate, his heart pounding in his ears, he remembers Nate and his fingers clench, his palms sweat. That has to be real.

Well, there is one way to contact someone of demonic persuasion. 

He stands on the crossroads and makes the cut on his palm, presses it to the ground. He looks up and doesn't make a wish, he makes a threat. 

"Someone get their ass down here, or I'll dig into all my memories of how to fucking kill a demon. Those weren't pleasant, I remember."

"Homes, chill," Ray tells him, shaking his head. "What, you bored with the human life already and want to sell your soul again? Tsk, tsk, Brad."

"Wouldn't sell it to you, you goat-fucking retard," Brad states mildly and Ray nods in agreement. "Where's Nate?"

"What am I, supernatural yellow pages or your motherfucking matchmaker?" he asks and then shrugs. "No one knows, the last time I've seen him is the last time you did, when he ascended or whatever shit it was."

The bottom of Brad's stomach drops. He's been running on anger and the need for answer, and that has been keeping fear at bay. Now it gets to him, cold and terrifying, that maybe Nate is really gone, maybe this is it. Maybe Brad gets a soul and a human life, but no Nate. 

It's fucking miles away from being even remotely fair. 

"Ask around," he tells Ray. "I need to find a way to get him back."

"You're not the boss of me, homes," Ray offers, but he's nodding already. "I've been..." he starts and suddenly stops, head tilted to the side as he listens to something Brad can't hear. "Wait," he raises his hand and steps to the side. 

Thunder rolls, because the fuckers upstairs are just that much of drama queens. 

"Huh, it worked," Nate says before he stumbles and Brad rushes to catch him before he hits the ground. 

"What the fuck, Nate?" Brad asks and gets a faint shrug in return.

"God's plan," he says, not making much sense. "Remind me not to knock it down next time."

*

Nate's name is, apparently, Nathaniel C. Fick. He's just about to be done with law school at Stanford and has plans to become a public defender.

"Of course you would," Brad says, investigating the collection of IDs and library cards and credit cards and other shit he took out of Nate's wallet and laid on the glass table in the living room of what seems to be Nate's apartment. "Is there a garnizon of angels that deals in creating false identities that would fool the CIA?"

"I don't think it's creating a false identity when you change the reality into one where that person existed the whole time," Nate points out from the floor. He's spread on his stomach, flicking through a photo album. "I know all of them," he says in wonder and Brad nods. 

"Fucking surreal," he agrees. "So," he says slowly, leaning back on the couch. "What now? What is this?"

Nate rolls over to the side, head propped up on his elbow, and smiles, warm and easy. Brad thinks he could get used to this. "A second chance."

"That's what this is? For interfering with God's plan and Lucipher's war and the fucking apocalypse, that's what we get?"

"We get what everyone gets, Brad," Nate says fondly. "We get a lifetime. We'll see how it goes, together."

Brad lowers himself to the floor and mirrors Nate's position. He reaches out to touch the side of Nate's face, run his fingers along the line of his jaw, over the shell of his ear. Nate's breathing catches almost imperceptibly. "I could get used to this," Brad tells him.

"We have time for this," Nate agrees.

"What else?"

"It's almost summer. I'm almost done with school, you have some holiday time saved up," he says. Brad remembers this, it's true in this new life.

"We could go to Greece," he says and leans in to taste the smile that appears on Nate's lips. 

They have time for this. And while it should feel like the time is running out with every passing second, like they've traded eternity for one fleeting lifetime, Brad isn't worried in the slightest, it doesn't scare him at all. It feels like more than a second chance, it feels like a gift. 

He's not going to waste a second of it.

*

epilogue

In all his years as a crossroads demon, Ray has never wanted anyone to go back on a deal.

Until now.

"I told you not to come," he tells Walt and crosses his arms. Walt just rolls his eyes at him.

"Leaving me a note on the bedside after you sneak out in the middle of the night is not telling me, you asshole. Besides, a deal's a deal, and I don't think I should go back on that particular one, considering."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that. Fuck mankind," Ray tries and Walt smiles at him indulgently and reaches out to pat his cheek. 

"I'll find you, okay? Or you'll find me, I'm told I won't remember at first."

"I don't want this for you," Ray mutters. "It's not a bad life, or existence, or whatever, but it's not for everyone, okay? Plenty of it is shit, just ask Nathaniel. You could do better. You should..."

"If I may," Mike the fucking archangel says and Ray can't even.

"What the fuck, homes, it's becoming annoying. Don't you have something better to do upstairs than hang out at crossroads and interfere with people and demons trying to have a fucking moment here?"

"I admit my timing could be better," Mike admits serenely, the fucker, "but I'd like to point out that young Walter has saved the entire mankind. His path is a little different than most of people's making a deal on the crossroads."

"And that would be?" Walt asks in the same moment when Ray spits out "The fuck?" which conveys the same sentiment, more succinctly, thank you very much. 

"Let me put it this way," Mike shrugs and he's smiling. Ray wonders if it's kosher to punch an archangel. He's a demon, how much trouble could he get in? "I'm here to talk to you about a job opportunity."

Walt blinks. A few times. Then, slowly, he crosses his arms. "Do I get wings and a flaming sword?"

"Health benefits are good too," Mike adds. 

No, seriously, Ray can't even. 

"What do you think?" Walt asks him and Ray shrugs, except that yeah, okay, the idea has some fucking merits, and that way it's not like Walt has to die and go for the eternal damnation, so it's really splendid, and...

"If you become an angel we're gonna have some motherfucking serious Romeo and Juliet star-crossed lovers shit going on," he says.

Walt smiles at him beatifically.

Yeah, okay, this is going to be awesome.


End file.
